The Sky's Wrath
by ShadowGuard23
Summary: What lies beyond the void of space, and what happens something falls from the heavens? Trapped on an uncharted world far from Council Space, Hadrius Varro must find a way to end a demon incursion with his last surviving Guardsmen, and the help of a city in a fjord, alongside a pair of sisters. That is, if they can just get past trying to kill one another. Set 3 years after frozen.
1. Downfall

_If something can go wrong, it will.  
__Alus Indrius; Battlemaster of the Third Shadow Guard_

Space was a beautiful place, he had to admit. The far reaching void held both treasures and dangers beyond the imagination of all life. Even for the eyes of Hadrius Varro, if it weren't for the nightmarish vessel decorated with razors, spikes and numerous other embodiments of death that filled his command deck's observation port.

And then of course, there were the hundred or so streaks of fire that were streaming from it's loathsome side, straight for his crippled flagship.

'Brace!' he called for the hundredth time, immediately before a hammer, or more specifically the wall he'd been holding at an arm's width was rocked back with tremendous force, into his plated skull.

Growling his contempt for the foe, the Guardsman launched himself back from the screen, to the secondary command console off to his right; the primary one already having been consumed in fire at the onset of his predicament. Artificial gravity held few bounds for him; the generator having been one of the first pieces of equipment knocked out by the Soul Reaper's onslaught.

A routine assignment gone horribly astray, it had been over two months ago when the Battlemaster had been summoned to Terra, with his next mission. After a painful series of investigations into the numerous raids on the Council's borders, the threat had finally tracked down by a Pioneer team to the Sol system, though any real intelligence on the enemy's capabilities had been lost with the team's destruction within an hour of entering the hostile space. Determination to end the threat had seen the hunters of the Fifty Ninth redeployed from their search grid within hours of the incident.

Determination, and a clear disregard for caution, Varro thought bitterly.

Now, with his two support ships long gone in the opening salvo of the Dreadnought class vessel, and his remaining ship; the Warden of Terra, tearing itself apart in an uncontrolled descent into the gravity well of a planet cloaked in vast oceans, with the occasional mass of green land, there was only one thing left to do.

'All remaining forces aboard the Warden,' he instructed grimly, 'we are beyond saving the ship. Evacuation order Sigma is now in effect; all crew are to get to either drop pods or sub vessels and prepare for evac. Window expires in three minutes; grab whatever you need and move it!'

He wasn't entirely certain that his belated order reached all interiors of the ransacked vessel, but with new data reports from the hangar bay, as the Ravens prepared to guide their vessels from the doomed Warden, the Battlemaster could at least hope, even as his console burst into sparks and fire.

'Remus!' He spat, signaling the last Guardsman left on the blood stained command deck, 'prime the distress beacon and get ready to move!'

'Navigation matrix is out, Varro,' the steadfast figure returned, 'I'll need another minute to recalibrate our coordinates in...'

'We're over the third planet from Sol's sun!' Varro broke in, 'I'm sure they can work it out from there. Warn them of what we're dealing with and send up the beacon! We're out of time!'

As his ensign worked feverishly to complete his assigned task, Varro threw himself back further, until he was floating beside the vast holographic Battlemap of the fleet's deteriorating status. Thankfully, the crash prediction matrix was already complete, giving him an approximate course of the fireball's descent into the atmosphere below. Frantically scanning for any sizable location near their predicted pathway, Varro finally pinned a finger into the digital image of narrow coastline in the Northern-most region he could find on the map, barely a kilometer off the prophesied crash landing into the ocean.

'Rally point for all survivors is designated,' he shot over the chaos of the fire, 'Remus, have you finished up yet?'

'Beacon's away,' the Guardsman replied. A fist slammed the counsel before him, sending their only hope for salvation into the depths of the void, just before a fireball consumed the bridge, consuming both figures in a fury of tumbling flames.

* * *

The skies of Arendelle had always held great wonder in his mind, as he gazed up into the slow fall of flakes and the constantly shifting shards of colour that turned and spiraled in the winter sky.

The gentle, recognizable snort pulled his attention back down to his oldest friend, as the inseparable pair continued to gaze up into the unending roof of the world.

'The sky's awake, isn't it?' Kristoff asked aloud, more to himself than Sven, but regardless, he could tell by the reindeer's subtle glance upwards once again at the night's curtain that there was at least one person in agreement.

And yet, this night, there was something else in the usually flawless display of colours; a bright chain that seemingly cut through the tapestry of the North, and Kristoff realized with some joy that they were witnessing a shooting star.

'What would you wish on, Sven?' he queried absentmindedly, only be be replied by a gentle nod on the cheek by his friend.

'Fine,' he chuckled softly, reaching into the satchel that lay half buried in falling snow, to extract another carrot for the pair to share.

'What's your wish, Kristoff?' a second voice interjected, sending Kristoff shooting upright at the sound. The last time he'd checked his surroundings, it had just been him and Sven, although, almost immediately, the distinct voice was enough to put him at ease.

'That you'll stop scaring me like that,' he offered gently, as he eased himself back into the snow to observe the Aurora once again.

'Come on, Kristoff,' Anna said, hopping down from her horse into the snow, 'it's never been that bad.'

'Well...'

'You could have just asked any other day,' she continued playfully, sliding down to his side, 'it would be quite a waste on a wish.'

'I don't know,' Kristoff replied, chewing his lip, before he finally relented what was holding him back, 'it's just that I've heard different things about stars. Not sure what they'll bring now.'

'Well, good luck of course,' Anna returned, allowing her own gaze to shift upwards, into the void beyond, into the unknown.

* * *

Unfortunately, Varro did not feel he was emulating Anna's belief of 'luck' to any real extent, as he clung to the wall-turned-roof in free fall, fully aware that a drop at this height, without an atmospheric entry suit, would definitely end the Fifty Ninth's Battlemaster.

If incineration on entry didn't kill him, the impact with the ground certainly would.

His armor rent, scarred and burnt beyond recognition, Varro clawed at the stubborn bulkhead, praying to the Great Father for it to part open. He did not dare to look back, though whether it was for fear of seeing Remus' incinerated corpse, or the closing distance to the hard impact of the ocean, he did not know.

Cursing his luck to the Storm, he hammered the console again and again, his voice lost in the roar of air ripping past the doomed ship.

Then, as if the Great Father had suddenly decided to grant him a single mercy, if only to watch him suffer again in the near future, the two plates of steel parted to give way to a creature that would have petrified lesser beings; fully plated in Matt black carapace, a similarly hued cloak dancing erratically in the wind behind it, while it's helmet covered the being's face completely. Indeed, the only evidence of a living soul beneath the suit were the two red eyes the glowered in the sunken recesses of the face plate.

For Varro though, he could only grin, at least, what constituted a grin when one's jaw had been nearly torn off three years past leaving a somewhat lopsided smile of a maniac. Indeed, it was the mirror image of the Battlemaster that hung from the wall, save for the charring of the latter.

'Well you're a sight for sore eyes, Victus.'

'I've seen worse,' the Guardsman replied solemnly, as he hauled the Battlemaster up through the gap in the wall, back onto relatively stable ground. 'Last pod is standing by to drop now, Varro.'

'Are the rest of the regiment off?' The Battlemaster demanded midst ride, as the continued onward for the designated corridor, even as he grappled the sides for guidance. The air was thick and choking with smoke, and as they progressed into the dying wreck, visibility was quickly dropping as quickly the Warden was.

'Anyone who could have made it off already have,' Victus replied, 'all that's left aboard are the dead.'

Varro refused to reply to that. Despite the intelligence's specific advice to follow the path they'd taken, right before being torn apart by the Reaper, the lives of the Guardsmen lost were his to carry once more. Such was the burden of command, he reflected grimly, and even as they marched through the constricting smoke and fire, Varro breathed the last rights of the Guard under his breath.

It would probably be impossible to recover the bodies anyway, once they were locked beneath the ocean water.

Such only soured the already bitter taste of defeat.

But most of all, failure.

* * *

'Be advised; entry propulsion systems offline,' repeated the dead pan artificial intelligence that never failed to intone the imminent death that Varro continuously managed to avoid, 'recalibration required...'

'Screw you, Warden!' Teronius roared, before he slammed a fist against the release panel. Slipping inside with seconds to spare, Varro finally seated himself inside the drop pod, as the door sealed securely shut behind him, trapping the four Guardsmen within an iron coffin.

There was of course Victus, having entered the tomb before his Battlemaster at the former's insistence at being the last aboard the doomed vessel. Then, there was Plinus, hunched over and brooding as he always was on the far side, while Teronus continued to spit curses and atrocities at the Warden's A.I. for their current predicament.

'Are we even locked on the flight path?' Victus demanded. The wolf's glance he received from Teronius was little comfort.

'Sort of. Down.'

There was the sudden horrible lurch in the stomach, as the pod departed the relative safety of it's mother, and began it's horrendous, uncontrolled descent; the two sets of jets mounted on it's sides to aid in slowing down the impaired vessel firing off sparks and irregular pieces of metal.

Of course, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise their deteriorating situation outside was not fed back to the crew within, namely due to the cracked and ailing control council situated at the center of the capsule receiving a sizable metal bar through it's display screen amid the chaos.

Not that it did much to improve Varro's mood.

'Be advised,' the A.I. continued, barely functioning by such a point of damage, 'impact in three...'

'I hate this part,' someone murmured over the comms though, in the heat of the situation, Varro was too busy keeping his eye on the count down timer to check the comm log for which suit the weary voice had come from.

'Two...'

Then, everything detonated in a shower of pain, before the bliss of unconsciousness took over.

* * *

**Author's note: thanks for the support guys! Reviews and constructive criticism always appreciated **


	2. Back into the fray

_Only the Fallen have seen the end of our conflict.  
__Julius Fornus; Battlemaster of the First Shadow Guard_

* * *

'What happened to one? I swear, that thing has been trying to kill us since we got it's ungrateful hide.'

There was probably more to Teronius' furious rant, but, with half his head buried in steel alloys, Varro had enough sense to set his priorities right. Soon, all that was left was the painful task of ripping his neck from the pile of debris, when the door was brutally kicked open.

'Never thought I'd be glad to see the sunlight,' someone said. Who that was, Varro had no idea. No matter what ideology they'd been taught in the past, the Guard had long forgotten their longing for the rise of dawn when they'd been enrolled in the Shadow Guard. Darkness was their veil and protection, in the battle against the foe from beyond the reaches of space.

A sudden shift in a metal bar gave him enough time to tug his head and helmet free of the confines of the battered pod, if only to gain another concussion in slamming his head against the supposed armor of the escape vessel. All too often though, he'd found it provided minimal protection from gunfire, or at least, anything designed to shred paper, from the outside, while providing the equivalent of a dragon's scale, but only from those trying to escape its confines.

Perhaps it was another of the Council's attempts to galvanize their forces to fight harder in the void, to avoid a trip in the paper baskets.

'Watch your head, Varro,' Victus grinned, as he offered a hand to the blurry eyed Battlemaster.

'So much for the countdown,' the Battlemaster grimaced, as he finally seized the illusive hand of his brother amid his ailing sight, before the pain in his skull sent him teetering off aside, and into a snow cloaked ground, 'please tell me it's not winter.'

'Sorry to disappoint,' Victus grumbled, 'and it gets better; computer's way out, but I think we came off the rendezvous by quite a distance.'

'Which way?'

'We head North East,' the Fieldmaster replied in answer to Plinus' enquiry, 'we should hit it by o-nine-hundred.'

'Alright,' Varro instructed, trying to collect swimming thoughts, though such was proving to be extremely difficult with a pounding headache induced by the effective force of headbutting a steel plated pod without proper bracing. 'Gather what you can salvage, we move in five.'

'Um, about that,' Teronius' voice broke in, sending fresh pulses of agony through an already confused head, 'I could recommend bringing that time forward; we have company.'

His eyes finally refocused, Varro's pupils finally snapped back up, to find at least a dozen pairs of yellow eyes staring back at him amid the undergrowth, concealed in cloaks of fur, as they marched upon all fours, growling their intent.

His right hand absent mindedly falling upon a blade's hilt at his belt, Varro could only breath a prayer of thanks to the Great Father. At least their eyes were completely yellow, rather than the tinged outline of gold around the iris that marked a demon. That would have spelled a death sentence in their current, battered states.

No, right now, all the Guard faced were the local fauna.

The ring of alloyed steel departing it's sheath sent ripples through the ravenous creatures, and within seconds, the battle was joined, as metal met fang, and steel triumphed once again.

* * *

Not for the first time, Elsa was at a loss as to what twist in fate had dictated her place as regent. As if the curse-turned-gift from her birth hadn't caused enough problems, monarchy held a substantial number of responsibilities to add to her days. While most of the time, it simply meant an aching hand at the sheer volume of paperwork and signatures, it was times like this that truly put her to the test, when nobody knew what on earth was going on.

Ever since her coronation, Arendelle had lived in relative peace and plenty throughout the three years, as trade continued to flourish, and relations, save for that with the city state of Wessleton, had been repaired in the light of the Great Winter. She didn't actually know why her people had even dubbed the incident as such; in her mind, it was more or less a period of three or four days that nearly cost lives in the biting cold.

'Winter' didn't exactly connote the gravity of what she'd caused.

She caught her thoughts there, as she paced the width of the library for the hundredth time, and promptly buried the dangerous train of reasoning, as a snowflake fell before her eyes.

_The past is in the past_, she repeated to herself.

Besides, she had more important, and present issues.

Over the course of the evening, panic had spread quite rapidly through the streets, as what could have only been described as the largest earthquake to ever hit the fjord had been recorded. Although, for the most part, there had been no structural collapses, and injuries were limited to nothing graver than a concussion from falling debris, a rolling wall of water racing up the fjord from the ocean was unnatural to say the least.

At least she'd finally managed to freeze something that truly mattered, she thought ruefully. She could still remember the blind panic as she'd made her way out onto the fjord, before the wave simply locked in place in it's prison of cold.

By daybreak, the tides had subsided and thawed, but the real question still loomed, and frankly, she was running out of explanations for the people. The repair efforts across the city had brought her sometime, but even so, there were still countless meetings with the higher ups to be made, in preparation for an address that no one present even had a logical explanation for.

Combined with the unearthly sighting of a titanic flaming mass dropping from the sky in the midst of the night, and crashing into the ocean just off coast, out of the direct sight permitted to the city by the valley walls, rumors of sorcery were already afoul.

A soft knock on the door spun her about, prying the Queen from her thoughts.

'Come in,' she called, a fraction more forcefully than she'd intended.

'Your majesty,' Kai announced from the door, 'the council's ready; five minutes.'

'I'll be on my way,' Elsa replied, absentmindedly, as she turned back to the fractured town beyond the bridge, trying, and failing miserably to formulate a stance on the matter before walking back into Arendelle's council. It paid to be prepared afterall, by peeling together personal assessments before hearing the voices of her advisors, but one could not fabricate from nothing.

A cough turned her back about to the butler, who still stood under the door's frame.

'Apologies, my Queen,' he quickly added, 'but, your sister has also asked to see you; in the conference room.'

There was a moment of confusion across Elsa's face. After all, Anna didn't usually fall upon the formalities of requesting presences, particularly with her own kin. However, with the council waiting, there wasn't much time to ponder on the irregularity, as she followed Kai down the hallways, watched by the cold eyes mounted upon the paintings that decorated the long walls of Arendelle's halls.

* * *

Anna was not alone, though her company was not who Elsa was expecting, as she stepped through the doors of the otherwise unoccupied room.

Birgir; commander of the city's Royal Guard, stood at attention upon her arrival, but the grim messages contort across both their faces was clear; the two were in disagreement, again.

'Your majesty,' the soldier said, bowing in acknowledgement to his charge, 'it is my duty to request that you deny Princess Anna's insistence on leaving the city grounds.'

'What?'

'Birgir here,' Anna elaborated through gritted teeth, 'thinks we need an escort, which won't be ready until...'

'Hold on,' Elsa interrupted, placing a hand out to try and stem the flow of the argument, 'what is going on here?'

There was a tense moment that passed between the room's two original occupants, as they seemingly dared one another to give their variant of the story first. In the end, it was Anna that broke the silence.

'Look,' she reasoned, 'no one actually knows what just happened last night, and we'll need to know sooner or later, so it's logical we should head North; where the star fell.'

'A search that should be conducted by the Royal Guard,' Birgir put in curtly, 'and not by a member of Arendelle's royalty.'

'Wait, Anna,' Elsa asked, 'by search, do you mean as in you?'

There was an uncomfortable pause in her sister's eyes, confirming Elsa's fears even before the words left her mouth.

'It's not just me,' she tried, 'I've already spoken with Kristoff and he's good to go. Besides, you need all the hands you can get here with repairs.'

'I mean no disrespect,' Birgir put returned, though Elsa had some doubts that he even meant the words; the hazel eyes still cold as steel, 'but your husband is not a swordsman, let alone a member of the Royal Guard. Journeys North can be treacherous these days.'

It wasn't a secret that the Northern regions of Arendelle were becoming dangerous by the day. Where one may have only encountered a pack of wolves as a rarity at one point, now, travellers were disappearing into thin air, only to be discovered days later, either bloodied, or already reduced to the bone by feral creatures, despite attempts by the Royal Guard to control the savage animals. Indeed, to think back on it, it was a true miracle Elsa had even made it to the North Mountain three years past, let alone the fact Anna and Kristoff had also survived the journey. Anna, though, would not be deterred.

'Please Elsa,' she appealed, 'the people will need to know, but we can't leave them defenseless; we'll be back by sundown, I promise.'

'And I can't let you run off and nearly get killed again,' Elsa finished curtly, 'I'm sorry Anna, but I can't sanction this. Wait until things are subsided here, then I'll detach a group of Guards to investigate.'

'Elsa...'

'Anna, please.' Even now, she could still remember the moment her sister was turned to a statue of ice; a memory she had no wish of recalling, but continued to do so, against her will. 'Just stay for now. For me.'

* * *

'So,' Kristoff asked expectantly, as Anna's footsteps rang off the cobbled street, 'what did she say?'

There was no immediate reply. Truth be told, anyone could have read the answer from the scowl drawn across Anna's face, though, like always, it was quick to fade away, as she found comfort in even the smallest of things, as she crossed the footbridge connecting Arendelle's castle to the town beyond it's open gates. Even in winter, the skies were clear; crisp and blue as the gentle storm of the previous night died away, revealing a beautifully blanketed landscape of undisturbed white powder, save for the marks in the streets, as people continued about business, and the clank of a hammer on wood resounded throughout the city, as reconstruction works continued throughout the day.

'What do you think she said?' She finally answered, eyes still cast into the distance, admiring the fjord's natural beauty. At that, Sven let out a similar groan of disappointment, as did his old friend. Though it was magnificent and a haven from the wild, Arendelle still presented the constant challenge of the everyday routine; one that tended to wear an adventurer to the bones, particularly after a colourful number of experiences beyond the safety of the stone walls. Even if the first had nearly been her last, Anna reflected ruefully.

'You know,' she piped up, drawing up two sets of guilty eyes from a suitably reduced carrot, 'someone's going to have to go out there sooner or later, whether we like it or not.'

'Hey, you didn't have to convince me,' Kristoff grinned, 'it was your sister and Birgir.'

'That was never going to happen,' Anna sighed, as her eyes wandered from the fjord, to the valley beyond it, to find something remarkable in the distance.

Far beyond the ridge of mountains that protected Arendelle's Northern approach, somewhere in the ocean concealed by the stalwart walls of stone, a pillar of smoke almost the width of the city itself was rising in the distance, billowing greedily upwards, consuming the once pure air of the winter; a black stain upon an otherwise perfect vista.

'Kris...'

She didn't have to elaborate much further, as the man followed her eyes craned to the heavens, over the steepened walls that encased the fjord.

It was instincts rather than common sense that then guided his gaze to witness the small glint in his wife's eyes. A glint that was promptly returned.

'I'm going to assume your sister said yes.'

* * *

Elsa was seated in her private office when she heard the commotion. After what had probably been the shortest meeting in Arendelle's history, with the complete lack of information available somewhat limiting the options and advice the council had to offer, and the following decision to prioritize repairs to the city while sending carrier pigeons to the Northern Settlements in an attempt at gaining a better grasp of the situation from local sources, Elsa had retired to small room, pondering over her sister's earlier argument.

Truth be told, Anna had valid reasons to get out there; it was easy to forget the Queen was not the only member of Royalty who owed their duty and loyalty to the people, rather than themselves, but wasn't that what inspired her own decisions? Leadership wasn't a privilege; it was a responsibility to one's subjects, to ensure they endured whatever hardship they faced.

Such had been her father's code, and such had been her own, ever since returning from the North Mountain.

Besides, she reasoned, Anna's hotheaded nature made it difficult to trust she stayed out of trouble.

And yet, there was none other on hand, and nothing for her sister to accomplish around the Castle as of the present moment in time. Paperwork had already been established as something well outside Anna's comfort zone, and there weren't any visiting emissaries, or political missions that needed the attention of a warmer attitude, rather than Elsa's more, reserved nature for outsiders.

Perhaps she'd made the wrong call.

Just when she'd been about to alert Kai to bring her sister up for a revised directive, the clatter of hooves off cobbled stones filtered in through the open window. Hooves that rattled quickly and regularly, despite the layers of snow that were building upon the roads.

It wasn't much of a secret that only one creature in the city could achieve such poise amid a winter's storm; even the royal horses of Arendelle were bred for clear roads, leaving them somewhat burdened in the winter weather.

And only one reindeer in the city could move that quickly.

A pair of quick strides to the window gave Elsa enough time to spot a familiar black sledge tear along the road, a familiar set of antlers marking it's lone source of locomotion, before it disappeared off into the distance, beyond the outer gates of the town below.

Despite the seething fury any other regent would have displayed at such a wanton display of insubordination, Elsa couldn't stop a defiant twitch around her mouth reform her lips into a gentle smile.

Well, she thought carelessly, as she made her way back to her desk, still laden with the less glamorous responsibilities of monarchy, she would have been a fool to think she could have held Anna any longer from another adventure.

* * *

Without anticipating a long hunt with the wolf pack, which continued to stalk their progress even after their absurd losses on the beach, it was an hour past midday when the four shadows trudged back into 'friendly' lines. That was, if one included being held at gunpoint for a few short seconds by a half dozen cloaked guardians that emerged from concealed positions simultaneously, before recognition was confirmed.

Redirected in the approximate direction of the Guard's new operating base, it was another two hours before Varro's bone weary detachment reached the promise of safety.

Like every other base he had seen over his years, it was bleak, unlit beneath the concealing trees, and most importantly, appeared like the desolate, haunted stronghold that nobody in his right mind would even contemplate walking two feet into. Though, to think of it, Varro wasn't even sure if they'd get close enough to ponder such thoughts.

Although his helmet's circuitry was mutilated beyond use for interfacing with the Fifty Ninth's Battlenet, Varro knew methods of concealed positions the regiment had learned over years of staying alive, and though not a Guardsman had greeted them, the four had already walked right past three concealed pillboxes, each more than capable of gutting an unwanted intruder, as their occupants continued their silent vigil.

At least someone was lax enough at the Firebase to offer the formality of greeting the ragtag squad, as a section of the ground silently shifted aside, revealing the concealed trench that had laid beneath the snow coated mesh, and the Guardsman that had resided in it.

'Glad you made it, Varro,' Tarus grunted, before he gestured vaguely toward the unusual coats of fur that was slung awkwardly over the four Guardsmen's backs. 'Hunting already, I guess?'

'They started it,' Teronius shot back impassionately, though his shrug nearly removed the wolf carcase that was carried upon his shoulder. Not for the first time, Varro realized how similar each of his brothers sounded, if one removed the ability to hear their actual voices over the comm net, as his dented helmet had done so. Each helmet was well and truly built for terrorizing any opponent; the red lenses that seemingly pierced any man's eyes, and stared into his very soul, to the automated audio filters that turned each Guardsman's voice into the deep thunder of a demon. If they weren't fighting spirits, half the time, the Guard could win a war by terror alone. And if that failed, their unnerving skills at infiltration always made the elimination of leadership a viable approach.

'Well the lads will be happy to get some meat back on the menu; most of the supplies went down with the Warden anyway.'

'How many made it?' Varro asked, his tone lowered, but if it was a matter to Tarus, he clearly had little regard for secrets around brothers.

'We're still tallying the losses,' he replied, a head slanted to the side instinctively, vaguely toward the wreck of the once mighty vessel, hidden from sight by mile upon mile of trees and ocean, 'but as of now, we've got six hundred accounted for.'

'From a thousand? How many still standing?'

'Three hundred, sixty nine to be exact,' Tarus replied, 'not including you four. We've got another ninety four wounded; down in the Behemoth, but the rest are with the Great Father.'

'Great Father indeed,' Plinus muttered softly, before he touched a curled index finger to his forehead, recanting the rites of the Fallen Guardsman.

Varro, on the other hand, was simply lost for words. To think he'd lost more than half a force that had fought with him for two decades, since his ascent to Battlemaster, all to hunt down one...

When he found Foresh, he promised himself, he'd tear the demon's heart out himself.

* * *

When she'd first anticipated another journey Northwards, Anna had not known what to expect. Indeed, it wasn't everyday that a meteor's crash landing in the ocean caused a tidal wave to nearly engulf the city of her birth, but even so, nothing in the past could have prepared her for the sight that would greet the trio when they emerged from the treeline that ran parallel to the Northern coast.

Frankly, there was little else to describe the massive structure that rose from the horizon, other than an island of steel. It was large enough to be mistaken for a volcano, or a landmass with a height equivalent to that of the valley walls that protected Arendelle, but it's base left little doubt that the creation was far from natural. Rather than a wide base, and a narrow peak that rose vertically, the 'island' ran at an angle to the ocean that surrounded it, similar to how a javelin was left quavering at an odd degree after it's arched journey through the sky. At the same time, she had certainly never seen a creation of nature with straight and rigid lines, that rose from a base in equal width to it's highest point, if one had raised the anomaly until it was perpendicular to the ground. Truth be told, it was like an oversized spear in the wake of a throw; the work of a giant waging war.

In fact, to call it an island was impossible; no island she had ever witnessed boasted steel and iron in the place of trees and soil.

And though they were not the runes used in Arendelle's scriptures, a series of clear bold textures were stenciled in white over the iron plate; a similar type of text used by the regions further South, such as Corona.

Though she'd barely paid attention in tutoring classes, close relations with their cousins across the water had somewhat incited some interest in foreign literature over the past years. If she was reading it correctly, Anna could have sworn the letters read something along the lines of 'Warden', though, a number of the glyphs refused to share any correlation with the lettering she had studied over the years and several letters submerged beneath the waves, a guess was the best translation she could offer.

'Out of interest,' Kristoff piped up, his eyes, like those beside him, unwavering from the landmass that rose to the heavens, 'that wasn't there before, was it?'

Anna could only reply with a silent shake of her head, her mouth still trapped open at the sight of the titan rising from the water.

It was then that she realized that the structure was not the once perfect piece of architecture it had once appeared to be from afar; holes and craters were strewn across it's once immaculate walls, revealing the hollowed exterior beneath as flames continued to bellow forth from the caverns within the strange landmass.

If only they could get out there, Anna wondered briefly, before she spotted something that promptly demolished any theory of getting out there and surviving; a black shape loomed over the bent metal; wings unfurled and raised to the heavens as it disappeared back into the clouds. Whatever it was though, she was fairly certain it would not take well on trespassers into it's domain.

A low bawl from Sven quickly brought her thoughts away though from the mysterious island, as the reindeer nodded his head along the beach.

Lodged in the sand, was a similarly alien structure: a miniature of what dominated the rolling seas.

As they raced up along the rocks, narrowly avoiding an unintentional entry into the freezing water below, as Anna had discovered a lack of caution on uneven ground would lead to, almost a year ago, the similarities were glaringly obvious, clearly beyond the capacity of any man to build.

Though it was matted black like it's mother, the small structure was merely coated in the darkened paint; a single rap revealing, with a dull clang, it's metallic nature beneath.

In their curiosity of discovery, neither witnessed the sharp pair of reddened eyes, concealed in a small depression ten meters away, watching from the shadows.

* * *

It was quiet, nearly peaceful, upon the command deck of the landed Behemoth command class transport, when an alert nearly sent Varro out of his seat. Truth be told, Varro was already half asleep, given the nocturnal activity of the Guard, as were most of those who had survived the hectic landing, with the notable exception of Plinus and his Hunters. The eyes and ears of the Guard, and trained in dangerous long range engagements, most were augmented to be able to function at full capacity even after weeks on end without rest.

Or maybe that had something to do with the fact it had been days since the Battlemaster himself had slept soundly, since they began the hunt.

Irrately, as he tried to recollect his interrupted thoughts, he hit command console, bringing up a communications signal from one of the forward sentries. It was then that he realized the ID tag belonged to none other than the Hunter that had accompanied him down planetside.

'Report?'

'Varro,' Plinus' voice chipped in over the static, 'we have two contacts on the shoreline ; advise?'

'Demons?'

'Negative; sending a live feed now.'

Half expecting the screen before him to disintegrate into the imaging of two corpses, Varro was somewhat pleasantly surprised to find the Guardsman that had called it in had not enacted the overzealous teachings of Julius Fornus. Through the sentry's eyes, Varro, and those aboard the Behemoth's command deck, was able to watch what he could only make out to be two bipedal creatures trudging through the snow, right for a Guard drop pod that had been too heavily damaged to be removed from the shoreline.

'That pod was scuttled, right?'

'Affirmative, Battlemaster,' Plinus replied, 'anything in there will probably beyond salvaging.'

'Copy that,' Varro mused, before he waved Victus over from his own screen, 'run a bio-scan; cross compare with whatever's in the databases.'

It didn't take long before the Fieldmaster had a match, although, if it somehow provided the answers to all his questions, Varro was surely missing something. The computer had landed with a result under a race not dissimilar from his own; the Titulian, but there was precious little under the entry, based on a seriously outdated Pioneer report from when they'd come across the system, some two thousand years ago. Naturally, with xenos pouring over the Front everyday, and demon incursions multiplying by the day, it was little wonder that the Council had not chosen to divert assets to investigate the species classified as Humanity any further.

As far as the data went through, at the time, the race had been little better than barbarians, and as he scrolled through their physiology files, there truly wasn't much of note: a comparatively weak immune system, and a grave structural weakness of the central nervous system being placed so closely to the back. Indeed, the only detail Varro found intriguing to the slightest extent was the fact the team had recorded them to be an intelligent species; something that could be of use against a demon threat.

He realized the Guardsman was still waiting for advice on what to do, while he lay crouched in the low ditch that overlooked the shingle.

'Sit tight, Guardsman, and see if you can forward the audio for intel,' he instructed quickly, sensing instinctively that the black cloak had already flipped off the safety on his hellfire rifle. Briskly, he turned back to Victus. 'Cross the audio with whatever the Pioneers picked up when they first hit the ground, and see if Warden can decipher something.'

'Sure,' the quirky A.I. noted, much to Teronius' dismay, 'you want me to see if I can invent a new language from data reports two thousand years ago, and a few mumbled words?'

'You've done worse,' Teronius put in absently, earning the closest expression of reaction by the A.I.'s standards as a sigh went. It had been a rather nasty shock for the Fifty Ninth's Master of Ordnance to learn his nemesis aboard the Warden of Terra had managed to successfully preserve itself aboard the lone surviving Behemoth heavy transport, that now composed the framework of Firebase Abaddon. Such had always been the case, ever since the A.I. 'accidently' vented the atmosphere in the Guardsman's room, after several illegal attempts at unplugging the A.I's surveillance systems by the unfortunate Teronius, for some 'private' time. Thankfully, Teronius had been wearing an atmospheric suit at the time, but clearly, the two had vastly differing senses of humor, judging from their opposing recollection of the events leading up to their antagonistic relationship.

'I'm not even going to attempt persuasion,' the lively, yet artificial voice chirped back, 'anyhow, I believe we have a match; filtering audio now. It's quite the cross of a number of old dialects, but it should be the correct one.'

'Should?'

'Well, it was a fair guess to assume the correct dialect including a hypothesis on the drop pod being a fallen star, rather than the one that cited something along the lines of a monkey's rear end.'

'You actually trust this hunk of junk?' Teronius asked, 'he's probably spouting nonsense from his exit port.'

'For the last time, I am an A.I.; to refer to this entity as 'he' is logically incorrect...'

'Aw shut it, the both of you,' Varro groaned, 'I get more peace in a trench line on the Front compared to a day with you two.'

At the comment, Warden promptly ceased it's banter with Teronius, although if it was a deliberate choice for the digital unit to raise the volume on the incoming audio feed, to the point at which Teronius' continued argument was drowned out in the onrush of sound, remained to be seen.

'...could be a building?' one of the adapted voices muttered, as it's owner placed a mittened hand against the mutilated hide of the drop pod.

'It couldn't be,' the other conversed, stooping down for another angle at the battered vessel, 'it looks like someone shot it quite a distance...'

'Alright,' Varro decided, hitting a comm bead, 'Plinus, get your hindquarters on site, and get these two nosy parkers off site before Foresh finds us.'

'On it,' the voice replied, accompanied by the slightest clank of metal over the comms, as a sheath was strapped to it's side for war.

'Might I add you are not to use lethal force, Blademaster,' Varro clarified, halting the slither of sharpened edges slipping into pouches and belts, and drawing a somewhat disapointed glance under the Guardsman's helmet.

'So what? You want an interrogation?'

'No,' the Battlemaster mused, chewing a lip as he did so in thought, 'we're already outnumbered by a bad way; I'd prefer if we didn't reinforce Foresh with the natives as well. If they aren't possessed, scare them, and shadow them back to wherever they're based. I'll bring a second team up to assist once you have the coordinates; Warden, start running a translation software; we'll need something to communicate with the locals.'

All that replied him was the curt wink of both acknowledgement lights on the Battlemaster's display, before it faded once more, like the Guardsman the former signal represented, on the hunt yet again.

* * *

It was Sven who first sensed something was watching them. Indeed, it wasn't even an actual scent brought by the midday breeze, or the flicker of movement in the woods; simply a sixth sense that had kept the wolves at bay for as far back as he could remember.

Bawling a low warning was enough to snap Kristoff's head up from the analysis of the intriguing craft they had discovered. For what it was, it was suitably simplistic in design, and yet, there was an untold amount of complexity the long coils and wires that ran it's interior, situated around six seats. Who would be mad enough to place themselves in a projectile to be thrown at a foreign coast, Kristoff had no idea.

Quietly taking a lantern and moving slowly so as to avoid painting the words 'prey' across his back in the eyes of a watching canine, he motioned for Anna to move for the sledge that was still attached to Sven's back.

However, unlike the night of their first chance meeting, nothing came bursting forth from the foliage. No row upon row of golden eyes glared upon what they had already marked to be their next meal.

No, this time, the trouble had simply materialized behind him.

A slight cough at his back spun Kristoff around, in time for him to fall back in terror.

What occupied the space he had once assumed could only be described as a monster; there was nothing more to it. Something some could associate with a knight, perhaps, if one were corrupted and tainted by dark powers into a servant of an evil lord from legend; it's matted, crimson eyes like blood, as they studied his form.

And then off course, underneath the floundering black cloak, there was the issue of the short blade hefted lightly in the giant's right hand.

It hissed it's words, in a tongue that, while he could not hope to understand, the message was still crystal clear.

Whatever the spectre was, it didn't take kindly on trespassers, as the blade hovered before his eyes. It dawned on Kristoff, perhaps too late, that the building they had been prodding with no true respect over the past minutes, could well have been the damaged crypt of the furious ghost.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the shade was gone. Or rather, sent airborne at least a dozen feet in the opposing direction after being lifted off the ground by a set of antlers.

'Get on!'

Kristoff didn't need a second invitation, as he seized the sledge's side, empowered by both by Anna's words, and the natural strength from fear one found when pursued by a nightmare from the other realm, and promptly pulled himself aboard, as the solid spectre rose to it's feet.

'Sven,' he urged, 'move!'

He didn't care for the rapid backlash of powder that met his face, as Sven's hooves dug deep into the ground at a breakneck pace, tearing up the settled snow, some of which flew right into his open mouth, but it didn't matter. All that did, was that the terrifying figure slowly sank into the dark with the growing distance between the couple and the black cloak.

* * *

'I said scare them,' Varro roared with the utmost amusement, much to Plinus' chagrin, 'not introduce your face to the rocks!'

'Aw, shut up,' the Hunter sent back down the comm line, 'They're off your turf; same result. Now if you'll excuse me.'

Sighing, he snapped off the comm piece, and the laughter on the other end. He rather regretted linking his mission feed to that of Abaddon's command center, but that would be an issue for another time. Most of the Guard had already been pummeled, mutilated, and even eviscerated, that the only form of punishment his surviving brothers had not endured so far in their long lives was decapitation.

As a result, anything that wasn't going to kill him, combined with the fact he was just over one hundred and twenty years of age, most of which had been spent becoming a feared killer, made any screw up a comedic matter.

The low whistle that bypassed his helmet's filters was still enough to send the few nesting birds in the trees take flight, though it was hardly thanks to the sound of the Fifty Ninth's Blademaster. A moment later, and the foliage had burst to life, before a four legged beast that easily measured the length of the steed that had sent him airborne moments ago, if one did not include the long, barbed tail across the newcomer's back, burst from the shadows, a low growl on the wind in answer of the call. One of the last surviving Makar amongst those to survive the hectic landing, Plinus had been ecstatic to say the least that his old friend and steed had endured.

'Come on Diomedes,' he whispered, grasping the shaggy mane across the muscular creature's back, as he hauled himself up, a plated hand pressed against a scaled carapace in friendly greeting, 'let's go.'

The Makar's only answer was a shudder of an equally low volume, before it pounced forth, bounding lightly along the trail, it's long forked tongue flickering along the earth through serrated teeth, as it picked up the scent of the hunted.

'They're not on the menu yet, boy,' Plinus laughed softly, as he surveyed the small Storm Node attached to his wrist, and nodded to himself as it read off a flat line of activity, 'they aren't demons.'

The second the device picked up something, he told himself, he had something unnatural within his sights. With one eye fixed on the miniaturized reading on his right wrist, the pair disappeared into the woods once more, running by leaps and bounds after their quarry in silent pursuit from the shadows.

The moment he got a reading, the rules of engagement would change.

* * *

**Author's note: Coming up next; guess who is setting off a ping on a Storm Node? First impressions between a sorceress, and a dozen Guardsmen trained to eradicate her kind, couldn't be worse.**


	3. Judgement and Execution

_Mercy is an invitation for one's own ending.  
_Verenus Cornelius, Councillor, upon signing the purge of the Egius system

* * *

The low glimmer of it's jets hidden away by the steadfast suppression fields, not a soul witnessed the silent flight of the Omen overhead. Even with it's close proximity to the height of the trees, not a sound reached the ground; the give-away elements of the glide all tucked away beneath the cloak of the stealth vessel. Inside though, was a different story, as carapace was locked over fabric and flesh once more, and alloys only dreamed of by the world's alchemists were fitted together, into rifles and other machines of warfare yet again.

Quite frankly, Varro did not know what to expect on the ground; Plinus' report had been vague at most, in a probable attempt to limit his exposure to another witnessed blunder; only detailing the enemy's weapons and technology, but there was little he could do to estimate a town's population, or more specifically it's armed forces, from the outside of a wall. As a result, Varro had ordered the squad to lock full packs beneath their cloaks, unwilling to be caught unsupplied and off-guard again. While there was the occasional grumble at the need to lock the additional mass to one's back, it never arose pass the sarcastic glance of irritation. After all, no one would actually feel any different, be it light or full pack, thanks to the powered servos within the carapace, but after a horrific landing like the one he'd guided them into, Varro could afford to give the Fifty Ninth some leeway.

Then again, he always did. There were few real changes between ascending from a Guardsman to Battlemaster, in terms of one's own regiment. Guardsmen still called their superior by name, and only switched to one's title on rare occasion, usually when only token formality was required in the 'civilized' realms of the Council.

'Comms check,' Varro grunted, as he finished adding a bandolier of grenades to his vest, 'sound off.'

All ten Guardsmen shot off their names in squad order without hesitation, each marked over the comms with their own unique traits, but in the actual of the interior of the vessel, after passing through the vocal filter of each helmet, all the same deep, monotonous and imposing artificial throat that had been designed by the council to terrify any being in close contact with the Guard once again. Unless those beings happened to be beyond fear, like Varro's current prey-turned-hunters.

'Severus, check.'

'Vorenus, check.'

'Hestus, check.'

'Grius, check.'

'Quintus, check.'

'Ignus, check.'

'Regius, check.'

'Marnus, check.'

'Junius, check.'

'Decimus, check.'

'Tarus, check. Legion's all in the green, Varro.'

By the time Legion's commander had called off his own name, Tullius had already pulled the Omen into the closing stages of it's journey, and, with his formation armed for war, Varro was able to activate the holographic display at the Omen's center, replacing the mobile armory as it slid beneath the alloyed plates of the Omen.

'Alright,' he began, 'we don't have a great deal of intel to go on, but from Plinus' report, we're dealing with a sizable position, with an unknown garrison number.'

'They're armed with sticks, Varro,' Tarus interjected, though it was far from disrespectfully; rather, it was the all too common confidence a field commander had to possess, to inspire in his men onward into the unknown. 'Numbers won't matter.'

'True enough, Tarus,' Varro noted, as the general assent died down, 'but we're not taking any chances. We'll move by fire teams; Legion One and Four will link up with Plinus, and scour the main settlement; I'll take Legion Two and Three, and infiltrate the primary citadel.'

As he spoke, Varro had to admit he was making the task at hand seem a grave deal easier in theory than in practice. It wasn't often the Guard were called upon to potentially take on an entire city with a dozen Guardsmen, but, with over half his regiment licking wounds, it would have to make do.

'Objectives?' Marnus quipped up, earning a hastened nod from Varro.

'Yes, yes,' he muttered quickly, his mind mostly adrift with the constant thought of the rest of the Fifty Ninth, 'right, I know the common procedure on such operations is to shoot first and ask questions later, but consider that now a last resort. If they aren't already tainted, we'll need them in the coming war, to even the odds.'

'So then,' prompted Tarus, 'care to answer Marnus and give us the plan?'

'We'll be looking for either evidence of an existing demon incursion, in which case you have authority to burn this whole pit to the ground. If not, we need to find something that we can use to bring the city to aid the Guard. Foresh was hardly sitting idle over a planet with intelligent life, so there's bound to have been some unusual activity recently. We find anything we can use to prove their existence; we should be able to pull some reinforcements into the fray.'

'You don't think just telling them could work?' Ignus put in, earning a scowl from Tarus once more. Despite his placement in the Shadow Guard, the Guardsman had never quite learnt to put two and two together fast enough for his commander's liking. 'I mean, I think most people would join if you told them a psychopath from hell was at their gates.'

'If they didn't spit in your face first,' Varro countered with a sigh. 'People are all too willing to hold onto the illusion of safety, even if it has already moved into the past. No, we need something solid that will jolt them to either stand or die.'

'So, we're playing fetch from the archives?' Marnus groaned softly. 'I'm having a bad feeling about this already.'

'You can look for sympathy somewhere else, Marnus,' Varro chuckled, before he turned back to address the assembled company. 'Keep your eyes on your Storm Nodes; you get a ping, the mission changes. Clear?'

There was a roar of acknowledgement, even as the Guardsmen produced the sensors from their packs, and locked them beside the scopes of their rifles. Designed to detect the abnormalities of the other realm, they alone would decide the fate of the city below them, as the bay doors opened, and the shadows leapt from the relative safety of the sky, back into the night and darkness beyond.

His drop line securely locked into the tiled roof, Varro slowly lowered himself over the edge, face down, both hands gripping the hellfire rifle sighted before him. With the suit linked into his neural interface, he was able to control most of it like a second skin. In this instance, the arrestor proved invaluable, as it carefully fed the drop line a greater length at Varro's will, lowering the Battlemaster into the darkness. There were two others at his side as well;

Girius and Quintus, of Legion's second fire team; each a mere shadow upon the citadel's walls, as they began their vertical walk downwards.

'Legion Two,' Regius' voice chipped in softly from the opposite side of the citadel over the comms, 'standing by to breach.'

'Legion Three,' Varro replied softly, 'stand by. Silent entry. On my mark. Prime cutters and signal when ready.'

There was no acknowledgement on the far end, aside from a low curse from Marnus on the far side, as plasma cutter refused to leave it's tight pouch, before flying into the open unexpectedly, it's fall finally arrested by the Guardsman's quick reflexes in the nick of time. Varro didn't raise any comment, though if he did, it wouldn't have held many dangers for the Guard. They'd shut down their exterior communications ever since leaving the Omen, and sealed their suits; any noise they made would stay over the comms, and the comms alone. Only the wind continued to make any distinct noise high over the castle's grounds, as three dull blue lines quietly lit up a window on each of the castle's sides. A half minute later, and with the square shaped incision carefully removed for replacement, each Guardsman slid through the gap with ever silent grace. Only halting to replace the hanging piece of cut glass and wood back into it's respective location, before sealing it back into place again with the same tool used to breach the structural weaknesses, the Guard readied their rifles once more.

'Standard sweep,' Varro commanded, giving little care to the volume of his speech, 'one eye on the corridor, one eye on the Storm Node; move it out.'

The first room he queried was empty, and bereft of any documents of true value to the Guard. As was the next, and the room after that. Each contained the same basic layout, with a wooden frame at one corner, covered by a stuffed linen rectangle and a secondary sheet, though why it was required was beyond Varro. A quick inquiry over the comms gave little else, and it was becoming evident they'd landed in the dormitories; far from the location of a kingdom's secrets.

'Alright,' Varro muttered, 'Legion 2, move to the Western Stairwell; we'll regroup there and work our way down.'

'Copy that,' two voices responded, before a third unexpectedly chipped in.

'Varro,' Marnus called through the earpiece, 'I've got a signature.'

* * *

'Just promise me you won't do that again.'

'Yes, Elsa,' the familiar voice chirped back from the doorway, though, considering the words had started leaving her sister's mouth before she'd even finished her sentence, it was a fair guess that her 'disappearance' wouldn't be the last time Arendelle was found to be suddenly devoid of a member of it's royalty. Sighing as she replaced the quill into the drained inkwell, and making a mental note to ask Kai or Gerda to refill the small cup, she turned back to Anna, who was in the process of hanging the magenta cloak that consistently served as a constant reminder of her first days beyond the walls. She'd never abandoned the piece to the past, much to Kristoff's chagrin, after learning it was from the same gentle giant that had promptly hurled him at least twenty feet like a stone for a simple attempt at a bargain.

That, and of course the insult that had sent him skyward.

However, Elsa could not help but notice there was a certain hurry to her actions; not the occasional hyperactive rush that would claim her sister after being cooped up in the relative safety of the walls. It was likely linked to the reason that the Princess had insisted on seeing Elsa the moment she'd returned from her escapade to the North, and, despite the oddity of a blatant disregard for authority plaguing their conversation, Elsa crossed her arms with intent, preparing herself for what news had been brought back with the bone weary trio, after they'd ridden into the gates at full pelt just before the night's fall.

'So what was out there?' she asked expectantly. Strangely, unlike her usual lack of a filter for information, Anna actually took a moment to compose her thoughts before releasing what she'd seen; far from the ramblings of her sister Elsa was used to.

'I really don't know how to describe it,' Anna said, still trying to find the words, 'it was like, an island had just grown out of the ocean. Either that, or whatever we saw fall last night crashed into the sea, and is still there.'

'Wait, slow down, Anna,' Elsa put in gently, trying to stem the rapid rate at which the last words had emerged, 'you're saying we have a new island on our border? Overnight?'

'Well, I'm more on the line with Kristoff,' Anna continued, 'I mean; I'm pretty sure it's not an island. I haven't seen islands made of steel that is. And most islands aren't haunted.'

'What?'

'We found a piece of the...' Anna quickly realized she lacked a suitable phrase for the rock that had been hypothesized to be a gift, or curse, from the sky, '...thing, on the mainland; on the beach. And that was when we met it.'

'It?'

'I don't know what it was,' Anna sighed, trying to recall the moments of sheer panic, as the spectre had materialized from their backs. Frankly, she'd spent more time wheeling Sven about to send the fearless reindeer crashing into the ghost, rather than actually observing the red eyed shade. 'It was big; I mean massive: bigger than anyone I've ever seen. And completely covered; you couldn't see the person underneath the armored plate and cloak. That is, if there was one.'

Such a description was not of great use to Elsa, if only to plunge her into the depths of uncertainty, as she wracked her head for the myths of her nation, and found little to match the entity her sister had described. It entertained her briefly; that she would assume immediately that her sister's words were truth; words that, from any other, would have probably warranted an analysis by the city's doctor; Andor.

The thought must have crossed her face, as Anna mimicked her own crossed arms, but with the slight addition of a disapproving frown.

'I'm not crazy, Elsa,' she added quickly, 'I know I saw something out there.'

'And I don't doubt you Anna,' Elsa replied sincerely, placing her sister at ease once again, 'but, you know I can't take everything at face value. Monarchy doesn't allow a lot of space for second hand accounts.'

'You know who you sound like?' Anna asked, without giving much of a space for answering, 'Birgir.'

Elsa should have seen that one coming. Needless to say, the Commandant had been less than pleased with the return of the couple, after what he'd assumed to be as explicit orders to remain within the city grounds. In fact, Elsa was more than willing to bet the wrath of the warrior was partly the reason Anna was inside the relative sanctuary of the library with her sister. And there wasn't much she could say to oppose that line of thought. Arendelle's Master of the Guard was a hard setman to say the least, and was a true stickler for accurate information, refusing to devote resources until such claims were validated.

The results were usually pandemonium, when his obligations at a conservative approach to people's troubles was met by the nearly radical suggestions of Anna, to complete the duty the Royal House held to it's people, whatever the cost. Only last week, the two had nearly leveled the council room, and the rest of the Castle in the process, in a fierce debate over sending a detachment of men North, in an attempt to improve the security of the region after numerous feral attacks on travellers. In the end, Elsa had finally sided with her sister, overruling Birgir's authority of the Guard to deploy a squadron of men, but the case had only served to underline the constant feud between the contrasting pair. As Anna had put it at one point, by the time Birgir had enough information to warrant a logical action, the moment of opportunity to react had usually long passed.

'Valid point,' she conceded, slumping back into her seat in mock defeat, drawing a grin across both their faces, as they continued to converse in lowered tones, completely unaware of watching eyes from the shadows.

* * *

'I've got a clear visual,' Marnus reported into his comm piece, 'centre room on the East wing. Looks like a library of sorts.'

'On the way,' Varro replied, 'how's the cover on the Northern approach?'

'There isn't a Northern approach,' Marnus replied carefully, 'only other way in is from the West, and they're right beside it.'

'They? How many contacts are we talking about?'

'Well...' his response was drawn out, as Marnus tried to make some sense of the Storm Node before him, as it's usually horizontal line burst erratically toward the utmost regions of the screen. They'd rarely been used to identify individuals; more often than not, they were simply a means of predicting a horde of monsters right before it burst from concealment in an all out charge.

In those cases, exact identification was not usually required; just ammunition.

'I think we've only got a single signature,' he said, eyeing the display with some scrutiny, 'human female with blonde hair and light blue dress. I'm not picking up anything from the other one.'

'Human?'

'Well, you know what I meant,' Marnus shot back, 'fine, possessed human. I think; looks fairly normal.'

'You think.'

'I'm pretty sure.' By that point, Marnus was at the point of exasperation. All in all, he didn't know what to think. The infuriating subject of their conversation had kept her back to the concealed observer for the most of his conversation, and the Guardsman was left reviewing the few snapshots his mission camera had taken of the target as she'd entered the room, facing the right way. Even so, such was not helping his line of thought; she looked perfectly normal, or at least, she didn't appear to have just been involved in a struggle with a possessor. What's more, her eyes did not contain the rimmed gold hidden in one's pupils, for the parasite within to view it's surroundings. And yet, the Storm Node never lied. The presence of Ignus at his side certainly did not help.

'Nope, he's not,' Ignus put in helpfully, as he rifled silently through a book from one of the numerous shelves. 'And besides, I don't think this is the room we're looking for, if you're looking for facts that is. All I've got is some 'history' book about some lady sparking off a four day winter, or something like that. Some scribe got intoxicated, I guess.'

'Anything else?' Varro asked, 'truth can be stranger than fiction, after all, Guardsman.'

'How about rocks coming to life, and an oversized marshmallow beating the pulp out of a dozen guards?'

'Fine, I get it,' the Battlemaster replied wearily, 'get in contact with Tarus; tell him to keep looking for the archives. We'll deal with the demon.'

* * *

Not for the first time, Sven nosed through the sizable brown pack left for him by his oldest friend, hoping to locate another of the orange snacks he'd constantly shared. It hadn't been more than an hour since Kristoff had left him for the evening in the stables, but the satchel was nearly empty.

Well, not completely, he thought cheerfully, as his teeth locked around another of the carrots, and promptly shredded the tempting vegetable. What Kristoff didn't know couldn't hurt him, the reindeer reasoned.

Then, he stopped. Something on the wind; something well beyond the capacity of a human to detect.

Something familiar.

Curiously, Sven raised his head from the ground, in time to bear witness to three specters glide along the edges of the road, skirting the illumination of the numerous lamps that guided travelers back to the sanctuary of Arendelle.

Then a fourth filled his sight, sending the reindeer scrambling back into the recesses of the stable, as the wraith's eyes peered into his own, with eyes akin to the shade of dried blood matted into the recesses of the darkened helmet.

'Stand down' the figure muttered softly, as it absently allowed it's gaze to pass, 'it's just a steed.'

Still fearful as he watched two more ghosts, clad in black cloaks, flitter past, Sven only dared to move a full minute later.

By that time, the spirits were long gone.

* * *

When the last syllable of Anna's tale had left her mouth, an undisturbed silence had fallen expectantly over the room, as Elsa, and Anna to a certain extent, mulled in quiet reflection over the strange happenings beyond the fjord.

'So,' Anna finally prompted, snapping Elsa's head up at the touch of her voice, 'what do you think?'

There was a significant pause before she was met by any reply at all.

'I have no idea,' Elsa thought aloud, 'I mean, were there others like...it?'

Anna could only shrug at that. The strange structure; a cross between a miniature abode, and a crypt for old bones, had contained four, seat like extensions within its interior after all. Despite it's nearly ghostly appearance, the black cloak was certainly a mortal being, otherwise, she reasoned, it would not have been possible for it to have been lifted off it's feet and sent flailing through the air upon a hard contact with Sven.

But that begged the question, didn't it? For only spectres longed for the isolation. No human, try as they might, could stay sane for long in those conditions.

'Probably?' Anna suggested with a question mark attached, giving Elsa little confidence in that assessment on numbers, as she turned back to the latest report on her desk. Strange sightings in the North, animal attacks in broad daylight...

Could the ghostly figure have had something to do with the abnormal happenings that were haunting the roads?

She was interrupted by a knock at the door.

'Come in,' she called gently, reflexively seizing the report from her desk, satisfying the inbuilt human need to appear occupied when another entered their presence.

Unfortunately, such robbed her of the immediate sight that greeted Anna as she turned to face the door, to come face to face with a somewhat familiar black clad figure. Or rather, three of them, silhouetted against the dimly lit corridor, each one clasping a serrated blade in their armored fists as the black cloaks upon their backs fluttered ever so peacefully in the drafts that plagued the stone walls.

Before a warning shout could leave either throat, a set of arms seized each one in a choke hold of iron; a hand locked over the mouth, whilst the cold crook of an elbow was barred over the throat, as two figures, unseen until now, seemingly appeared from thin air at the sisters' backs, plunging them into the depths of unconsciousness.

* * *

'Targets down,' Marnus reported crisply, as he lowered the limp body in his arms, a blade still drawn in the same hand that had prevented a scream leaving the woman's mouth, even as the members of Legion Two filtered in through the doorway, silent in gait as they moved.

'Why the hesitation, Marnus?' Varro asked calmly, signalling Regius forward from his hidden position to join Marnus and Ignus, content the threat had been subdued, for now at least, 'cold feet?'

'See for yourself,' the Guardsman replied, as he pulled his arm out from under the still body, and, with a certain lack of care, pried open the right eyelid of the blonde haired woman with the palm of his hand.

Despite his apprehension at drawing blood, Varro was glad to see the Guardsman had not abandoned all caution, as the drawn short sword remained on hand, gently pressed to the fragile neck of the witch. And yet, what he saw took him by grave surprise. Though the iris gazed up into empty space without a conscious mind guiding it, there was no golden tinge at the rim of the deep blue that surrounded the pupil; no indication of a demon lying dormant within the vessel that now lay at the mercy of the Fifty Ninth.

And yet, the small sensors attached to either a Guardsman's wrist or rifle continued to sound away; silently drawing the thin sporadic line at the center of it's display upwards and downwards; the heartbeat of an entity belonging to the Storm.

'Take no chances,' the Battlemaster instructed quickly, producing a set of restraints from his back, and tossing them to Ignus, as he slung the other human over his shoulder for transport, 'Infiltrators never work alone. Prep for interrogation: until we know otherwise, we have hostiles on site.'

* * *

The room was dark when she woke. Only hazily remembering the terrifying figures in the doorway before falling into unconsciousness, Elsa immediately regretted jolting awake at the hair raising memory, finding herself face to face with a figure from a nightmare, and nearly implanting the serrated blade at her neck into her own flesh.

'Where are the others?' It hissed. The voice was unlike anything she'd ever heard in the past; a nearly automated string of sounds that nearly disassociated the man from humanity. That being said, she wasn't entirely sure if it was a man; with it's skin plated and cloaked in dark fabric, she could not see any remnant of a living person at it's interior, aside from the inhumane red glow of it's eyes. And even that was just an illusion, manipulated by the plate of glass toned red to complete it's demonic appearance, though it's opacity left no room for mistake in the material's strength. Without the telltale shimmer of reflective light, the lens could well have been made from the same matt carapace the rest of the warrior was clad in.

The press of cold steel on her neck though, brought her back to more pressing matters.

'What?' she asked in both genuine confusion, and an attempt to stall for time, before she realized Anna was no longer at her side. But before the desperate cry could leave her lips, the armored gauntlet clamped over her mouth, ending any sound before it could find her sister, or the guards beyond the walls.

'Make a sound above a whisper and I'll tear your throat out. Now answer my questions; how many others, and where are they?'

The hand removed itself long enough for Elsa's eyes to dart about the room, and survey her surroundings.

The analysis did little to improve her situation; she was currently sat with her arms locked behind her back through the divisions in the chair she was sat upon, with a maniac at her throat, and approximately five others at attention along the library's walls; each a still sentinel in the moonlight, with the fireplace extinguished in her bout of unconsciousness.

'Where's Anna?' she demanded, before the press of the blade cut her off again.

'That depends,' the figure answered, with a casual disregard, 'if she's like you.' Then, like someone had just flicked a switch within the suit, it lost its temper again, and it's mind.

'Where are rest of your kind, demon?'

'What?' By this time, Elsa wasn't sure if she was already awake, or if she had slipped into some horrible nightmare that refused to make sense of itself. 'You're insane.'

The monster's only response was to slam the blade downwards, into the chair, and a fraction of her thigh.

So much for dreaming.

'I'm running out of time here,' he whispered as a gauntlet covered her mouth again, suppressing the instinctive scream, 'so tell me where are the others!'

'I don't know what you're looking for,' she wheezed, before she realized the temperature in the room was dropping fast. If the black cloak had realized it, he showed no appearance of acknowledging it.

'You're not leaving this room alive, witch. It's only a question of how quickly you want it to end.'

The tip of the blade was placed on her kneecap while a free hand cut off her plea for time, before it swung back once more to deliver the crippling blow, when the doors barged open.

'Anna! Elsa!' Kristoff called, 'I need to talk; I think Sven saw...'

He didn't get another word out before the sight of the seven foot figure encased in unending armored plate froze the words in his throat.

* * *

The threat of detection overtaking his concentration on the demon, Varro let the blade in his hand fly in a fluid arch. The sharpened projectile slammed into the rugged man's jacket, dragging him back with it's flight, until it pinned itself, and Kristoff to the wall.

His hand fell upon the next blade on his belt, but as Varro tugged lightly at it's hilt, it refused to leave it's sheath.

A harder pull granted no greater result, and glancing down, the Battlemaster was amazed to see ice solidifying around the blade, and a growing mutter of shock on the comms quickly alerted him that something was growing horribly wrong, unlike anything they'd ever seen before.

The sharp snap of iron spun the Battlemaster about in an instant, in time to see the woman he was on the verge of killing a second ago rise up, the remains of the shackles, now brittle and caked with frost, hanging awkwardly from the back of the chair.

Girius and Quintus were the first to react, leaping at the witch with their already drawn blades in a bid to kill her before the demon at the core shed it's true self. In theory, it was the right protocol; to abandon one's fear to strike when an enemy was at it's weakest, before it peeled away the cloak of flesh and ascended to the pinnacle of it's power.

However, in Elsa's case, having no actual 'demon' to reveal, the reaction was imminent, as the two Guardsmen were met by a wall of ice that materialized half a meter from her hands that promptly sent the two skyborne, back into the wall.

'Ice?' Varro asked himself, bewildered beyond any rational thought. The monsters he'd seen channeled fire, or energies beyond the understanding of any sane creature of the Council; nothing like what was tearing into his Guardsmen.

But understanding soon gave way to zeal, if only to enact a Battlemaster's duty to defend his subordinates to the last, and Varro pulled up the slung Hellfire rifle without hesitation, and though it's freezing straps greatly limited it's mobility, he was able to sight the rifle upon the sorceress' head. At this range, with the combined armor piercing and delayed explosive qualities of the hellfire rifle, designed to shred a target from the inside out, a kill shot was certain.

That being said, in the heat of the moment, Varro had never thought to check the interior of the rifle's barrel, or rather, the lack of an interior, as it filled with solid water.

The round fired, impacting a solid obstacle within milliseconds of launch, and promptly detonated inside 'the target', or more specifically, the rifle that had just fired the ungrateful shell.

Varro fell back, stunned and winded at the unexpected detonation of his armament. They weren't ready to fight this force; not by a long shot.

'Break contact!' he ordered, narrowly avoiding another shard of ice thrown up by the distraught Queen, as he rolled up to the side, only to be blasted in the face by another wave of ice.

'Please, just stay away!' he heard over the howling blizzard that had engulfed the room.

That was when he knew he'd made a horrible mistake.

Only the innocent would avoid a chance at retribution.

Well, that was still of a matter of debate, as a dozen unaimed shards hurtled in his direction.

Wisely choosing a fall over impalement, Varro promptly leapt to his feet, and threw himself through the frail window at his back.

* * *

'Hurry it up,' Tarus muttered, 'we're on a tight schedule.'

'Why don't you try hauling this lad,' Plinus returned, with a great lack of respect, as he finally dragged the unconscious guard off the desk, and the reports previously concealed by his head. Or rather, the reports that were still lodged into the unfortunate man's head, after the half dozen Guardsmen had kicked in the door of the scout lodge, and promptly dispatched the garrison, occasionally slamming heads into the desks they were hunched over.

Immediately, Tarus produced the thin sheet of photographic metal, placing it over the flat documents, and scanning it into the reader's data banks for later review. Not that he could make much sense of the runes on the desk before him, but that was a task for Warden to decipher.

All around him, Guardsmen of his two fire teams scanned in the fragile paper reports, recording troop activities, sightings and whatnot from around the region, until a bell crashed in his ears, unanimously halting the Guards' covert operation.

'Crap,' Tarus whispered, before he opened up a comm line with a thought. 'Varro? What's going on out there?'

'We are blooming compromised, Tarus!' someone screamed down the line, 'Varro's gone over the edge; I don't have a visual!'

'What's the situation, Girius?' As the words left his mouth, Tarus leapt at the boarded windows, pulling back the curtains ever so slightly to watch a full platoon draped in long overcoats, fully armed to the teeth will all manner of blades, spears and mechanized bows that would easily punch through a Guardsman's light armor. 'Demon?'

'Worse.'

* * *

His breath slow and easy, despite the situation he found himself in and the breakneck pace he was moving at, regulated almost mechanically by the altered heart at his core, Varro was a blur of darkness moving along the corridor. The two guards in his path stood little chance, as their crossbow bolts flew through empty space, even as an armored gauntlet hammered into one man's unprotected face and sent him reeling back in agony, whilst the other's legs were ripped from the ground, in a lighting sweep beneath the inept guard.

Only pausing to ensure the impact with the ground had knocked the wind from the second guard long enough to guarantee an escape, Varro grappled with the first man, already stunned by the concision in his forehead, before a second sweep pulled the man's legs off the ground, and a well timed throw sent him through a nearby window, into the water below.

'Legion, report in,' he called, only to be answered by static. Cursing the witch and the ice that clung to his helmet's receptors like a plague, Varro burst through the next set of doors, only to nearly stumble on the prone bodies of at least a half dozen more of the city's sentinels.

'So there you are,' Marnus muttered cheerfully, 'wondering where you got to.'

'Long story,' Varro replied, before he realized that the body next to Marnus' feet was far too large to be a human. Thankfully, it was also upright.

'Not a word,' Ignus muttered irritably. Not that there was much to say on his situation; only one side of his body was actually upright, with the other pinned to the ground by his arm; encased in an all too familiar ice.

'Frozen?' Varro asked, unable to keep a straight face beneath the helmet. Evidently, Ignus must have seen through it as well; with their armor constantly concealing their faces, most Guardsmen had grown attuned in the body language of their comrades, particularly when they were mocking one another.

'Ha, ha,' Ignus spat sarcastically, 'sod off.'

'Cut him out, Marnus,' Varro instructed, before an explosion of glass shards rained over head, and a fourth shadow was sent spiraling onto the lawn, face down into the grass.

'I'm going to kill that lady,' Regius hissed, eliciting a curt burst of unsympathetic laughter from Marnus, 'I swear, she's bloody dead.'

'One thing at a time, Regius,' Varro called, before he managed to work a small cylinder from his thawing tactical belt, 'right now, we need to get out of here before we wake the hornets' nest...'

It was only then that the overwhelming storm of boots on stone caught up with him, and hiss of tempered steel leaving what sounded like a hundred sheaths, as the palace guard moved to surround the battered shadows.

* * *

The temperatures of the room were already well past freezing, as each of Elsa's steps split the carpet and wood with a frozen layer of ice, as she advanced cautiously upon the two remaining monsters that had threatened them all. They stood separated, much how the Duke of Wessleton's guards had thought a flanking approach would have evaded the snow queen's rage. As one, they replaced the strangely shaped cylindrical weapons that had detonated in their leaders' hands upon their backs, and made their own advance with the long blades that had long left their scabeths.

Elsa didn't know what to do. She was at her wits end, terrified beyond all reason, and close to conducting another hellish winter if she didn't find a way to diffuse the situation fast.

'Please,' she begged them, 'just leave.'

Incredibly, the pair halted their menacing gait, and they turned to one another with questioning glances, as if she'd just spat a lunatic's sentence.

Then one ambled forward in an instinctive stumble, clutching the back of it's head, the thunderclap of a the guilty vase shattering upon the beast's head all to evident.

The result was instantaneous, as the standing Guardsman devoured the three meters to it's fallen brother in the blink of an eye, before it let a thin set of blades leap from it's knuckles, and and sent a defiant Anna into the ground with a single strike.

In that moment, everything spilled out.

Like a tidal wave of emotion piled into frozen water, the room was engulfed in a second blizzard, as the two Guardsmen were swept off their feet; Anna's attacker was sent a terrific distance through wall, whilst his unsteady ally was less fortunate, instead slamming hard into a stone column that saved him from the plument, only to see it on the wrong end of Elsa's rage.

'What are you?' she screamed at the struggling creature; it's movements clearly alien, as it's limbs snapped back and forth in a way a human could not possibly achieve, 'Answer me!'

A furious long chain of ice spat from her fingertips, anchoring the flailing creature by the arm to the column, and remaining wall.

'_Kaldor Marsesh Nar'kith quindth, tora_!' it retaliated, abandoning the tongue it had once spoke in common with the humans. Judging from the nature of the way it screamed the curse, Elsa guessed it was hardly flattering. Even so, with a clearly aggravated Guardsman ahead of her, other matters took priority. Only halting to raise a hand, directing a shard of ice to pull the restraining blade from Kristoff's vest, freeing the hanging man from the wall, the pair raced to the fallen sister's side, although their eyes never fully fell away from the red eyes that seemed to stare into their hearts.

That was until Kristoff's gasp for breath pulled Elsa's eyes down, to something horrible. Anna lay on the ice, a widening circle of blood surrounding her wheezing body.

All thought of the pinned Quintus gone from her mind, Elsa cradled her shaking sister, sobbing as Anna lay convulsing with a wound in her side that continued to pour red fluid onto the ground.

A click sounded in her head.

Instinctively, the ice spat up again, shielding the trio from danger, not a moment too soon, as the wall exploded in fire, sending splinters and glass flying, rebounding off the transparent shield. There it was; the shadow that had first taunted her, hanging off the edge of the story like a statue poised to fall, as it clutched it's liberated brethren.

'No one left behind.' it whispered, barely audible above the storm.

Then, to the great shock of all those watching, they stepped back, and plummeted into open space.

* * *

Unfortunately for Varro, amid the instinctive rescue of one of his Guardsmen, he'd forgotten one invaluable flaw in his plan; with the frigid temperatures locking most of his equipment in place already, he should not have been surprised to find the wingsuit locked upon his back was frozen into its stored position.

'Oh hell,' he whispered, before all the wind was driven from his body, as the pair of armored troopers slammed into the turf of the garden, straight into the center of an all out brawl between the veterans of the Fifty Ninth, and at least fifty of the kingdom's swordsmen.

As far as Varro could tell, the odds were still stacked gravely in their favour, as long as the witch refused to join the battle, with each Guardsman at his side having seen at least a hundred years of war and blood, compared to the men they faced; untested, or only new recruits at best in the eyes of the Guard.

Even so, the witch's words had been enough to spare them the fate destined for demons.

'Not a life lost!' Varro roared over the comms, as he rose to his feet, 'Do what must be done, but avoid lethal force!'

Allowing a blade to slide from it's thawed sheath, the Battlemaster hammered into the the men of Arendelle; a single battering ram like his brothers that proceeded to turn the tide in what had looked to be a one sided affair, as the Guard clung to the shadows like a second layer of flesh, evading blades, or even guiding them into debilitating strikes against other opponents, all the while using fist and handle to clear a brutal path that, somehow, still left breathing opponents.

The first spear coming for his head pierced thin air, before the Battlemaster slammed the hilt between the man's arms with a black gauntlet, sending the off balance pole upward, into his attacker's face, even as a well placed elbow smashed the nose of another man seeking to encircle the winded Guardsman. His blade warding off another lethal strike, Varro opted for brute force over finess, placing all his weight into his locked sword, propelling the understrength man back into his compatriots in a tangled mess of limbs and bodies. Only ducking under one last horizontal blow aimed to split his skull, before a kick into the human's lower regions sent him sprawling the ground in agony, Varro's command over the howling battle was clear and sharp. As one, with two cylinders unhinged from their belts at the same time across the chaotic courtyard, their pins still left upon the tactical belts of their owners, the yard was flooded with dense, choking smoke in an instant, blinding anyone without a thermal filter affixed to their eyes. Naturally, anyone without a means to screen the fog from their eyes and lungs were placed at a distinct disadvantage amid the turmoil of the melee.

By the time the smoke cleared, the six black cloaks were long gone; the only evidence of their transgression that remained being the dozen empty smoke canisters that littered the battlefield, and an odd fifty bodies, either writhing on the ground in pain, or blissfully in the depths of unconsciousness.

* * *

'Stay awake!'

The phrase was repeated over and over like a mantra, as she was dragged upright by her sister and husband, as they walked the corridors at a snail's pace, restrained by the growing gouge in Anna's right side. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure what had transpired in the library, as she'd been kept under guard by the shadows, only to be inadvertently released in their mad scramble to contain her sister. What's more, the sheer speed at which the assault had unfolded was astounding as it was shocking: Anna had been standing one moment, ready to spring to her sister's defense again, and the next, she was on the ground, with an opening beneath her right arm about the size of an open hand in length, and a thin trickle of blood along a split lip, courtesy of Girius' brutal strike.

At least she had Elsa to thank; while at first the pain had been extraordinary, the falling temperatures had somewhat dulled the horrific sensation in her side, even as she was forced to take another step forward.

'We're moving too slowly,' Kristoff managed, 'get someone; I'm going to try and stop the bleeding.

'Kristoff,' Elsa began, but he cut her off with surprising authority.

'Find someone!' He repeated, before he pulled the vest he'd thrown over the wound as a makeshift dressing away to reveal a horrible sight. What had once been red blood had turned to black fluid, as it continued to spill through the fabric.

'Oh my God,' he whispered. The pair of them were rooted to the ground at the unnatural occurrence, before Elsa finally snapped out of the debilitating shock.

'Get her to my room; I'll find Andor,' she mumbled quickly, before she found herself pelting down the hall, in search of the castle's healer, before it was too late.

At her back, Kristoff placed both his hands down upon the wound, trying to restrict the blood flow, forcing it to halt it's constant pulse, when he realized something was horrifically wrong. Pulling a hand away, stained in his wife's blood, with some effort, he recognized what it was; a sticky residue lining the terrifying wound.

Poison.


	4. Complications

_When things are too easy, you are doing something wrong.  
__Anonymous_

* * *

'Alright,' Varro wheezed, 'will someone tell me what the hell that was?!'

He didn't get much of a reply, likely due to the fact his helmet's comm filters were still encased in the crystalline material, and in mid stride, as the formation strode off the Omen's rank as best they could without hitting the earth, the Battlemaster pulled off the helmet.

It was a rare instance, he admitted, that the paled flesh beneath ever saw the light of day; Guardsmen wore their armor almost anywhere they went, and even slept in the suit. Frankly, it had almost become a second skin, and a number of heads were turned to the Battlemaster in some surprise as the mask was peeled away, though no one said a word, at least, in reaction to the helm being removed.

'No clue,' Regius muttered, 'but that was sorcery; no doubt about.'

'True,' another voice put in, 'but you heard her right?'

There was a murmured rumble of assent from all those assembled in reply. The witch's plea for them to leave her alone made little sense, particularly when she was on the verge of gutting the lot of them. Had a demon been at the core, they probably wouldn't have made it to the Omen in a single piece, much less alive.

'Makes little sense,' Varro admitted, 'but I want priorities set; we don't have the time for the luxury of theories. Tarus; take the files to Warden, and have him start running translation and analysis; anything that points us toward an enemy. Clear?'

'Like a crystal,' the veteran replied, as he signalled for two more of Legion's number to aid him with the numerous digital sheets that now lay sprawled across the Omen's deck, amid their charge back into the safety of the vessel. Whoever had headed the city's defense hadn't taken too lightly to the infiltration, resulting in a mounted pursuit by horse, that had nearly engaged the company in an open fight, had an ambush by Plinus, Junius and Decimus not disabled the riders in the darkened corridors of the forest. Regardless, the possibility of a second pursuit was enough to spur a more than hasty extraction that had not seen the greatest care in the storage of equipment before take off. Meanwhile, the Battlemaster turned to those still at his call.

'Plinus, get to the comm center; if they haven't launched it already, I want the Charon Satellite in the sky now. The rest of you; get down to the infirmary, and get your wounds sorted.'

There were a series of nods, and murmured yeses, before all those present departed, save for Plinus, who gestured slightly for the Battlemaster to follow his path.

'Walk and talk?' He offered. Varro only shrugged in reply, as he fell in step with the Blademaster. Frankly, there wasn't a great deal of places he could be at during the present time, save for scrubbing the infuriating ice crystals from his armor.

'Has it occured to you,' Plinus suddenly injected, 'that we might be dealing with a Stormcaller?'

'A what?'

'The woman; in the Castle. Has it occured to you she might be a Stormcaller?'

The suggestion was enough to halt Varro in mid stride, before gravity finished the task for his boot, as the Battlemaster stood in silent thought.

More myth than confirmed fact, Stormcallers were said to be rare individuals that could harness the power of the Storm, unaided by demons that chained them to their own wills. Rather, these were masters of their own destiny, and dangerous foes for any to face. Indeed, they were said to rarely submit to any authority rather than their own, and the last time one had opposed the council, it had taken three whole regiments of both Shadow, Iron and Hell Guard to stop the threat.

Given Varro had what amounted to maybe half a regiment of Shadow Guard at his disposal, a brawl with such an entity probably would not be a good idea, particularly after seeing what a trained one could do. Fifty years ago, or maybe forty, the Fifty Ninth had been dispatched to Relius III, in an attempt to contain a xeno breakout from the Front, to act in support of the Twenty Third Shadow Guard.

A well kept secret, the discovery that the Twenty Third's Battlemaster was a Stormcaller was only revealed to him after watching the Guardsman single handedly burn down a mountain of rolling tidal wave of flesh and chitin as the the xenos had poured forth, Varro never forgot the sight of the Storm being harnessed for something other than the misdeeds of demons.

And the thought they had now found another. Another that could hold the key to turning the tide on their foes. Another that they had nearly just killed.

Not the greatest of starts to an alliance.

'I guess amends are in order,' he thought aloud.

* * *

It was a muted atmosphere as Andor continued his administrations, grinding herbs and other mixtures into poultice, in an attempt to starch the unending flow of blood, as Elsa continued to stand by her sister's side, hands intertwined with a cold palm.

After checking for every other symptom he knew of, the apothecary had come to the conclusion that the toxin held no actual direct consequences for the paling Princess. Rather, the strange and rancid concoction seemed to have changed her very blood, destroying it's ability to coagulate and prevent further blood loss, turning the long but shallow wound, into one that spelled almost certain death for Anna, as her life fluid continued to leak away at an alarming rate.

Frankly, everything in the medical textbook had been employed, ranging from sterilizing the wound, to poultices to bind the wound; everything, except taking a red hot iron to the cut, to seal the lethal blow.

When she'd still been lucid, Anna had stressed she was far from ready to undergo such a procedure, but now, in a state bordering the line of death from loss of blood, she was in little place to protest, as the steel was heated.

'It'll be okay,' Elsa promised, as she gripped her sister's hand, 'It'll be alright, just keep looking at me.'

'Kristoff's still out there...' Anna coughed, 'there's...'

'Look, I know Pabbie knows a lot, but I don't think poisons are the troll's forte,' Elsa soothed, her eyes darting back and forth between Anna's pleading eyes and the cold gaze of the physician as he pulled the iron from hot embers.

'You never know,' Anna mumbled, her words slurred, though Elsa was uncertain if it was the poison, the weak anesthetic she'd been given, or lack of blood.

'I'm sorry, Anna,' she whispered, before she squeezed her hand, and with a silent nod, gestured for Andor to begin, as the stick wrapped in gauze was placed in Anna's mouth, and the restraints that lined the surgery table were set.

'Three,' the man intoned mechanically. The burning heat was already radiating against Elsa's skin, even though it was on the far side of her sister.

'Two.' Elsa's hands felt like they were about to be crushed, as Anna's grip multiplied tenfold, finally accepting her situation.

'One.'

There was a horrific hiss of cooling metal, followed almost immediately by a piercing scream that bit even through the thick wad of silk.

Elsa, on the other hand, couldn't bring herself to watch. It was so tempting to simply comply with her sister's wishes, to cool the burning wound in her side, but then it would only call for another attempt at the painful treatment, until success was met.

It was maybe another full minute before she could bring herself to tear her eyes back to the scene. Anna was slumped to the side, having passed out under the damnable treatment, but if success had well and truly been met, Andor showed little sign of accomplishment in his weary eyes.

Barely daring to know the awful truth, Elsa slowly rose to the old man's prompt, and moved around the gurney, abandoning the limp hand that had nearly crushed her bones.

The skin was painfully blackened, nearly charred by the obscene treatment, but the black fluid was gone, and her heart soared.

It was then that she realized the illusion offered by the burnt tissue; the blackened flesh only serving to conceal temporarily the horrible viscous fluid that continued to seep from the opening; the corrupted blood, unable to heal itself under the adverse mutation it had undergone with the introduction of the deadly poison.

The tears refused to be held back by the once steadfast, blue eyes, any longer, as the Queen wept, for her sister, and for all the days to come.

* * *

'You know, Varro,' Tarus began, the incredulous bulge of his eyes all too present by the tilt of his head within the armored skull, 'I'm not sure where you got your people skills, but people tend to have something called memory, which tends to affect their line of judgement in the future toward others associated with specific memories, particularly when those 'others' tried to kill them!'

If Varro hadn't already anticipated the ending outburst, with the Guardsman's slow and dramatic increase in volume over his rant, he would have had to agree he knew little psychology. But as he had, the Battlemaster saw little reason for a 'little incident' to keep two races from banding together to survive the common threat.

'Foresh won't give the same mercy,' he replied lightly, addressing the assembled Guardsmen around the briefing room of the Behemoth, 'and I won't give us two months before he wipes us out, if we don't get reinforcements soon.'

'So what?' Quintus piped up, 'the distress beacon's still in the sky; Council forces could be on station in a week; no need to get embroiled in the locals any further, might I add. I don't fancy nearly getting turned into a popsicle again.'

Sighing, Varro nodded to a grim faced Victus to relay the news. It would have to come out sooner or later.

'An hour after Legion deployed,' the Fieldmaster spoke, 'we lost contact with the distress beacon. Considering the signal was only active for a short period of time, it would be prudent to assume the beacon was detected and destroyed by the Soul Reaper, and council reinforcements are not an option.'

'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' Tarus interrupted, still trying to salvage something from the new information, 'the beacon was still sending for what? Sixteen? Eighteen hours?'

'And that means a sixteen hour period, at worse,' Varro added, 'that someone on Terra could pick up our data. There's probably one ensign watching over an entire sector; what are the chances they'll pick it up in the timeframe the signal hits Terra?'

Defeated, Legion's commander slowly sank back against the wall he'd been leaning against, the gravity of the situation defeating his will to stand tall. Even if someone decided to review the data logs, sixteen hours was the tiniest blip on a radar that was accepting data from thousands of systems, each with perhaps a dozen planets. Without a continuous broadcast, their chances of someone picking up the data spike was, slim to say the least, much less so if one were also to account for the time it would take to redirect another regiment to their sector.

By that time, all they would find was ash and dust, yet again. Such had become the trademark of the Demon Foresh's incursions.

'There isn't much of a choice here,' Varro announced coldly, 'we either find a way to stand together, or we'll be meeting the Great Father a hell lot sooner than we all planned on. Victus? Where are we on the report search?'

'Not a great amount in the intel we seized,' Victus admitted, although he was quick to elaborate, unwilling to be the bearer of more bad news, 'but Warden's picked up a number of sightings of a flying creature along the Northern mountains that matches a Wyvern.

Of course, Varro mused silently. The vanguard of the apocalypse; massive, winged, impervious to small arms fire with their diamond hard scale, and with a sharpened tail and claws easily honed to punch through a cohort of even the tank like Iron Guard. Even on their own, they had a nasty habit of laying waste to many times their number before falling.

If Victus had meant the news as good news, Varro was sorely disappointed.

* * *

Digging his heels into Sven's sides, urging the shaggy mount onwards ever faster, Kristoff flew through the familiar woods, driving his friend to full pelt as they raced onwards, down the hidden valley, North East of the fjord where Arendelle resided.

Weariness refused to fall from him, as he spurred his friend on, ever vigilant of the malevolent material he held within the small satchel at his side.

Dismounting off Sven at a half gallop, the man hit the ground running, as he raced up the last remaining patch of summer in Arendelle's kingdom, during the winter months.

It didn't take long to get a reception; being a secretive race, it was rare the trolls were not ever vigil over the entrance to their valley.

'Kristoff's back!' someone called, before the once quiet valley quickly degenerated into a cacophony of greetings, news and other family matters, all of which fell upon deaf ears, as Kristoff's eyes found his adopted grandfather's.

'Grand Pabbie!' Kristoff cried, managing to survive another of the weighty kids landing in his arms in joyful greeting. Thankfully, the elder troll had enough sense to determine something was gravely wrong, and with a few crisp words, the chatter died away, giving Kristoff enough time to give his tale, before he produced the small jar that had been carried at his side for the length of the long journey.

'We couldn't bring Anna,' he grimaced, thinking back as to how they were barely able to move her to a suitable room, 'but if you could just tell us what it is, we could...'

'I'm afraid I cannot, son.'

'What?'

'Kristoff,' the old troll soothed, placing a surprisingly warm hand upon his shoulder, 'I do not know what plot has embroiled the kingdom, but this is no work of magic; there is a dark science behind the poison; one not from this world.'

'You mean...'

'I'm sorry, Kristoff,' Pabbie professed, the once joyful glance in his eyes at his adoptive grandson's return sinking below the tides of truth, 'but there is nothing that can be done. It is no curse, and even if it was, it is a vile one beyond my own skill to heal.'

Kristoff didn't know what to think, as he let the silk in his hands, blackened with the sickening concoction, slip through his fingers onto the earth below.

'Go, my son,' the stony figure instructed, breaking through the mountain man's sobs, 'make what time she has left count.'

A wrenching feeling resonating from the region his heart existed, Kristoff rose to his feet once more, only halting to accept one last, consoling embrace from Bulda, before he swung his legs onto Sven's back once again, and tore back into the woods, longing to be alone.

Elsa had already warned him it was only a false hope, but one could at least hope, couldn't they?

'Kristoff,' a voice resonated from his back, turning the broken man around one last time, to face the shaman of the hidden valley, 'a word of caution. Do not fall into the trap of vengence. It will only destroy all that remains in your heart, my son.'

Mouthing a few words of hollow acceptance, Kristoff turned back to the long road home.

Right now, vengeance was the last thing on his mind. All that mattered was being able to say goodbye.

It didn't help that the eerie, winged shadow upon the ground, that had been following him for the last twenty minutes of his journey, had not left his presence, as the beat of wings continued against the sky, in empty space.

Frankly, there was no longer any space in his mind for fear, as the man urged his old friend onwards, before he missed his last chance.

He tried not to think of what would follow, deciding to cross that bridge when the moment came.

* * *

Dismissing his Fieldmaster with a silent nod, Varro turned his attention back to the last shadow that had refused to fall in step with the rest of his company at his prompt. Sensing the young Titulian had something on his mind, the Battlemaster leaned himself against a nearby wall, scorning the use of the chair placed at the head of the command table that occupied the Behemoth's structure. For some odd reason he could never truly fathom, it was just not the custom of his people to use the seats installed universally across all war machines of the Guard, preferring a more natural, and combat ready stance, should the need to battle arise.

'Permission to speak freely, Varro?'

'Go on, Girius,' the Battlemaster replied, urging the youngling onward. Truth be told, he could not quite hide the bemused smile beneath the all concealing helmet; recruits into the Guard tended to enter with an ingrained respect for figures of authority. While Girius was already close to forty, the respect for a senior veteran remained in his address, with his Battlemaster close to one hundred years his elder.

'I must confess I did wrong during the infiltration.'

That certainly took Varro by surprise. By all accounts, he'd seen the worst of the damage done to the Arendelle cohort. A few broken bones, courtesy of the more zealous of the black cloaks, but not life threatening.

'I may well have taken a life; the one that accompanied the Stormcaller.'

'May?'

The Guardsman only slipped a hollow blade from his wrist in answer, and presented the empty cylinder to his superior in penance.

'I deployed a vial; when Quintus went down, I thought the worst...'

There was a slight pause as Varro reviewed the new footage Girius had just forwarded to him from the mission; the final fatal moments of Girius' instinctive attack, as Quintus tumbled forward, stunned by the sharp blow to the back of his head.

Any other would have acted the same.

'What did you use?'

'The Sanguis toxin.'

He didn't know why, but whenever the Battlemaster seemingly grinned beneath the helmet, even if it was in encouragement, such never heralded a good tidings for those it addressed.

'Then there is still time,' he whispered, clasping the young Guardsman upon the shoulder, 'get to the launch bay, and tell Tullius to prep his Omen for flight. I'll be there in five.'

* * *

'You ready?'

'No,' Girius admitted through gritted teeth, 'but I don't have much of a choice, do I?'

'Do you want to see Terra again? You didn't open up too big a wound, so she should still be alive, but the clock's ticking, Guardsman. Make it count.'

Girius simply opted for silence, as he locked the helmet over his head once more, the display flooding his eyes with data, ranging from the key systems analysis on his flight suit, to downright irrelevant numbers from Warden's continued algorithms. With a thought, he purged the screen of all the readings he did not need, even as the Omen's bay doors hissed open, revealing the rapidly receding landscape below the hurtling aircraft.

'Coming up on the drop zone, Guardsman,' Tullius' voice intoned in his ear, 'hang on; raising us to drop height.'

Holding on as best he could with a magnetically locked set of boots and gauntlets, Plinus was still left hanging forwards, pulled toward the earth below amid the Omen's rapid forward ascent.

Abruptly, a green light hit his eyes.

'Over the drop zone,' Varro's voice resounded, 'May He watch over you, Girius!'

Soundlessly, without hesitation, the Guardsman shut down the magnetic locks, and like a lead weight, the black cloak plummeted through the clouds, arms spread apart, before the fabric between his limbs was deployed, sending the shadow rocketing away, into the darkness of the night, eyes tracking for his target.

Tilting his 'wings' ever so slightly to avoid a close brush with the natural barriers that dictated the fjord's structure, the glowering city filled his sight below, ever watchful for another incursion by the spectres in the dark.

That being said, with every eye on the main causeway into the castle, or the still waters of the fjord below, who would have ever thought to look up?


	5. Fire, redemption and early graves

**Author's note: Alright guys; no one is safe in war. Scenes with violence ending in death begin here. Bit of a monster update; thanks for the support guys and please leave a review. Constructive feedback is always appreciated**

* * *

_Loyalty bound by regret is amongst the strongest of compelling forces  
__Battlemaster Hestian Niminius, commenting on the use of the Hellguard_

* * *

'Anything?'

'Nothing,' Victus replied, groaning at the prospect of a continued hunt into the mountains, 'same as it has been every time you've opened your trap to ask.'

They'd spent the better part of the last four hours trudging through thick banks of snow; the entirety of the Fifty Ninth's reformed First, Second and Third companies, searching for the elusive creature Varro had convinced himself would bring about amends. If anything failed, Victus thought grimly, bring the head of a common enemy to your foe, and the unlikeliest of alliances can be ensued. Of course, that was easy for one to say when they weren't slogging through a blizzard. Amidst the snow storm, visibility was reduced to a pitiful distance, even with the Guard's advanced sighting systems, and if a Wyvern really was their prey, thermal scopes were effectively useless; the diamond hard carapace of the creature somehow serving on past occasions to dampen the advance sensors from picking up it's heat signature. As a result, they were left with the fairly inaccurate Storm Nodes, with their limited capability for exact directional detection. Again.

If they continued at this rate, by the time they found the Wyvern, they'd probably be contending with the rest of it's brood, and the entirety of Foresh's forces.

'Contact!' The shout sent the entire staggered line of shapes into the ground, rifles trained to fire up the ridgeline they were moving up. Sure enough, there was a trace of movement through the falling snow. Then again, Victus thought to himself, it was easy enough to spot movement in any conditions; the real issue was identifying what stalked them in the mist...

The sudden scream over the comms was enough, as a barbed tail was thrown through the air, and through the gut of one of his Guardsmen.

'Wyvern!' Victus roared, as he hammered the trigger of the hellfire rifle, showering the shape in the blizzard with firepower.

He didn't need to give the order to open fire to his own; it was instinctive, as the entire company opened up in a salvo of fire, in vengeance for their fallen brother. There were howls that echoed throughout the night, lost into the void of the raging storm about them.

A new sun began to glow in the midst of the blizzard.

'Down!'

Victus had enough time to bellow the warning before the jet of hellblood; a horrific concoction of undying fires, streaked out, narrowly missing the Fieldmaster by inches, straight into the nearby mountainside, leaving a scar in the snow at his back.

Then, as it it had decided with feral instincts that it's fight could not be won, the creature beat it's leathered wings against the sky, dispelling the gale that cloaked both itself and it's foe, and took to the clouds, it's matted hide concealing it against the darkened night.

'Omen three two,' Victus raged, 'do you have a visual? Target is airborne, and Julius is down, say again, we have a shadow on the the deck.'

'No visual,' Argonius chattered back, as the Raven continued his sweeps in the sky, 'I don't have anything; scales must be shielding him from thermals. I don't even have a thing on the Storm Node...'

'Right there!' someone cried.

Following the outstretched hand, and sliding down a snow drift for a better glimpse, Victus could only watch as the darkened shape descended from the clouds, it's long Talons ripping through steel alloys as it settled precariously upon the airborne Omen.

Firepower from the Guardsmen on the ground was enough to force the creature from it's perch, sending the beast rolling into the night, licking it's wounds to battle another day, having crippled it's only capable pursuer.

'Damnit,' Victus cursed, 'pull back, Argonius; get back to Abaddon; we can't risk losing any more assets. And someone tell me where the bastard was heading; we need to consolidate for the next pursuit! We need a bearing!'

'Down,' came the only reply, and Victus had just a second more, to watch the set of wings disappear behind valley walls, as it descended into the cliffs, and the city at their base.

* * *

As he walked the flickering halls, lit by candle fire, Kai's step wavered somewhat as he rounded the next corner. He'd served the Royal family of Arendelle for longer than he could remember, and the thought shook his typically steadfast hand, carrying the next batch of remedies Andor had requested for his efforts; so much so he was forced to grip the tray with a second hand, barely preventing it from hitting the ground.

He couldn't quite bear the thought of outliving his lords again, let alone one he'd watched over from youth.

It was the unexpected reflection of his life and service that dictated his gaze to gloss over the shadow thrown up by the candlelight at his back, until it was too late to do otherwise, as a hand clamped around his mouth, and a sharpened edge at his neck.

'Listen,' a growl sounded in his ear, 'we're both trying to get the same thing done here, so choose your answer carefully. Where is the wounded one?'

The embrace of the carapace relaxed just for a second, before it replaced it's seal with a vengeance, as Kai drew breath for a warning shout.

'You might think you're trying to save her, but every second you waste here is not going to help with the cure.'

'You think I believe you?' he was able to whisper, 'I'll die before I talk. I placed my life at their will long ago...'

'Yes, I'm not interested in your life story,' the Shadow barked softly, 'and I know I can trust you to think that this vial is another bout of poison to finish her off, but otherwise, I wouldn't be here, would I?'

'The Queen...'

'Yes, I know your royalty would probably be pissed if you were to tell me where she is but no one has to know it was you, and the lady's time is ticking away. Last chance before I walk off.'

The ghost's reasoning was sound, the butler noted, but there was still a horrific pulse of doubt in his mind. What if it was still here to finish Anna off, or worse, go for the Queen herself? Then again, Elsa could take care of herself; she already had in the past, and he could do more to even the odds.

'Anna's in the boardroom,' he whispered, 'end of the...'

'Now give me a location that is not a lie.'

That was enough to cut Kai's hesitation. Swallowing the lump in his throat, and praying Elsa's skill would be more than enough to combat the threat, he answered truthfully.

'Third door on the right.'

The pressure on the razor edge lessened.

'Thank you. One last thing; who's with the wounded lady?'

'Queen Elsa,' Kai responded, wary of the blade at his neck. With luck, that would be enough to send anyone with a brain in the opposite direction, but the sharp edge remained present. 'Elsa, and Andor; the physician.'

'The witch?'

That certainly took Kai by surprise. By now, knowledge that Arendelle's Queen, of all people, possessing the powers of winter had become fairly universal. Even so, few still associated the magic with sorcery and witchcraft, although, come to think of it, it was a fairly accurate term. The press of the blade quickly antagonized a hurried nod of the the head. In all likelihood, the black cloak was simply confirming he had the odds heavily stacked against him.

'No blonde haired lad with brown eyes; the one who nearly got a knife stuck in him?'

'Kristoff?' The words left Kai's mouth before he could shut it off. It had been instinctive to assume anyone with foul misdeeds on their mind had known of the prince by name, and besides, with the uncanny ability of the black cloak to detect lies, he wasn't too eager to see the walls painted in his blood. Besides, if Kristoff was the target, discovery that he was no longer on the city grounds could play to the advantage. 'He's off, trying to get help.'

'Well, I hope he wasn't too successful,' the shadow muttered carelessly, 'otherwise, I'll be risking my frigging neck for nothing. Now hold still; this won't take a jiffy.'

A second later, and a vice grip locked around the butler's neck, plunging him into the depths of slumber.

* * *

'Queen Elsa?'

Dimly, Elsa realized it was the third time the words had echoed in her head, as she refused to leave her sister's side, before she started to call out a reply, halting herself a moment later as her broken voice, weak from mourning, met her ears.

'Who is it?' she asked again a moment later, slightly more composed, though her eyes remained reddened and rimmed with tears. 'Kai?'

'I am to inform you that Kristoff has returned; he's in the Great Hall.'

'Isn't he on his way here?'

'He requested a private meeting,' the Butler replied quickly, 'a few words. It shouldn't be long.'

'Did you get the morphine?' Andor piped up, looking up from his work only briefly.

'This took precedence,' the voice returned. 'I'll be back soon.'

Uneasily, Elsa began to rise, sparring a final glimpse of her sister. Her eyes were still open, having awakened from the lapse of unconsciousness barely moments later, but there was a fearful understanding there; an understanding Elsa shared.

There was only one reason Kristoff would want to discuss the trolls' advice away from Anna.

'I'll be back soon,' Elsa promised, clasping Anna's bloody hand one last time, before she stumbled out of the room, slammed the doors shut, and when she was a good distance from the wooden doors, she wept, never spotting the small metallic feed attached to the doorway she had departed, nor the black shadow that flittered past the nearby window; a bare figment of the imagination, as it produced a small metal bar, and slipped it beneath the window sill, silently praying the obstruction apart.

* * *

The stubborn, barbaric surface finally sliding upwards, Girius let a quiet curse escape his lips, as the window pan eased upward. While it was generous enough to avoid a sharp crack that would have awoken the dead, it's soft skitter was enough to be the equivalent of a thunderclap in Girius' ears, already attuned to remaining in shadow.

Already accepting the fact someone inside would have heard the intrusion, Girius abandoned precision, and in one fluid action, he slid the panel up the rest of the way, and leapt inside, feeding off his drop line from his upside down position to give him enough rope to enter the small opening.

Bursting past the curtain, instincts took over. Careful to avoid deploying the long series of blades concealed in his knuckles again, a blow to the head sent the only standing man in the room to the ground before a cry could depart his throat, leaving the black cloak with an unconscious Andor, and a terrified Anna.

Ramming the metal blocker within his backpack along the unhinged edge of the door and quickly sealing it in place with his cutter, Girius turned his attention back to his handiwork and shuddered. She wasn't the same girl he'd struck earlier in the night; rather, she was pale and cold to the touch from loss of blood, though she continued to try to draw breath for a cry for aid.

Perhaps thankfully for Girius, the wound he'd opened up in her side prevented such.

'I'm sorry for this,' he whispered, as gently as he could, although the automated filters of the helmet practically turned the apology into an uncaring display of dismissal, and with some effort, the Guardsman shut the filters down with another thought, although, to think of it, there wasn't much else he could, or was willing to, say.

Unclipping the small pouch fastened beneath his cloak, the Guardsman produced the small syringe of Noden's extract, before he pulled away the carefully placed bandages, each one all the more soaked in black fluid. By the time he had removed the last layer, he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to continue, before duty to his Battlemaster took over, and he ran a cold encased hand along the burnt edges of the wound.

They probably came closer to killer her than I did, the Guardsman briefly considered, as he searched for a vein or artery to deliver the injection of Noden's extract; the antidote for it's more twisted brethren from the same variety of plant; the roots of the Noden plant gave life, whilst the essence of it's leaves delivered death; the same death Anna was experiencing. In all his time, he'd been a guardsman to the core; he'd constantly left saving lives to the regiment's medics, and truth be told, he'd paid little attention to Victus' briefing on human biology, only really paying attention to the regions one could shoot to kill.

In the end, he chose the heart. If all else failed, usually it went to the heart, he reasoned. Besides, in all likelihood, the entirety of Anna's blood supply was probably poisoned by now; he needed a place that would distribute a cure, and fast.

Unfortunately, he, like his brothers before him, gave little warning before the thin but razor sharp blade punched into flesh, drawing a sudden yelp from the dying woman.

'Sorry,' Girius grunted again, before he primed a second needle, ignoring the plea in Anna's eyes to avoid another stab, waited another twenty seconds for the Noden's extract to complete it's conversion of the corrupted cells back to their original format, before he promptly brought the vial of the Purgance Virus down upon the same point in her chest cavity. Despite the name it intoned, the Purgance Virus was rather a virus to any other pathogen within a person's blood. Devised to mimic a person's genetic makeup, the aggressive nanites would quickly make short work of any infection that had come with the rather inept decision to cauterize a wound that was already incapable of being closed. Content that the surgeon's previous attempts were no longer life threatening, Girius leaned down to survey the wheezing cut, allowing a sigh of relief to escape his lungs, as the slightest hint of red began to return to the discoloured life fluid. With that, he began the final step; replacing the lost blood, before she still died of oxygen deprivation.

With as much grace as a seven foot hulk in armor could muster, Girius pried a bottle of sealant from his back, and gently pressed the nozzle into the open wound, though, truth be told, it certainly did not warrant the term 'gentle' on Anna's end, as the small tube was stabbed into a region of scarred tissue that was already screaming in agony.

Pulling the trigger of the sealant did to improve the situation. Nanites rapidly multiplying and thereby expanding inside an already tortured area of flesh, if only to starch the flow of reddening blood, tended to do such, as Anna twisted in pain, trying to pull away from the new doctor, but having lost a significant quantity of blood, her limbs refused to respond.

Pinning a second needle in Anna's chest, this time extracting a small vial of blood, Girius pumped the few drops contained within the syringe's chamber into the bag of synthetic blood Terinius had give him to make amends, and watched impatiently as it's previously clear contents turned red, as the modified cells were manipulated to match the patient's antigens, avoiding the body's frustrating immune system while serving their life saving purpose.

Once he was certain it had turned as red as it was going to get, Girius readied the delivery needle. Whether he did so with misguided care, or a complete lack of care, remains for debate, but regardless of the Guardsman's intentions, the result was still the same, as Anna, her strength returning, howled down the house as the equivalent of a full inch blade was pierced through the crease of her right elbow.

* * *

The Great Hall was fairly unoccupied when Elsa burst in through the rear doors with far more force than was necessary, eager to get the news over and done with.

'Where's Kristoff?' she demanded, far harsher than was intended, though, for the situation she was facing, most of the servants were understanding of the nature of her rush, if only they understood the message behind what she was saying.

'Kristoff has yet to return, your majesty,' Gerda politely answered, slightly uneasy as to the Queen's nature, away from her sister.

It was then that a flustered guard slammed through the main doors, red with perspiration at the delivery of his message.

'My Queen,' he announced quickly, 'the Prince was just sighted at the outer gates; he'll be here soon.'

'But...' Elsa could not exactly comprehend what had just occurred, when a voice spun her around, to face yet another of the grey clothed guardsmen.

'Queen Elsa,' he reported grimly, 'we just found Kai on the third floor; he's unconscious, but alive. Nevertheless, I believe we have an infiltration; we need to get you to...'

He didn't get another word past his lips before Elsa cut him off.

'Anna was there!' she screamed, 'we need to get up there!'

As if to punctuate her last statement, a scream rattled through the air, spurring the Queen into a mad scramble for the doors, followed in close order by the few guardsmen who had been assigned to the hall, each having sworn to place their Queen's life above their own.

That was, as long as she didn't insist on being ahead of them with a pace even they could not match.

By the time they returned to the familiar door, a number of other guards were already present, throwing themselves at the unyielding door, to little avail.

Only pausing to motion them out of the way, the blockaded entry held little bars for Elsa, as a torrent of solid ice was pressed against the impediment, overcoming it's restraints in an instant, and sending the wooden material flying off it's hinges.

Barely lit as the sight was, it appeared to be the same scarlet eyed shadow that had tried to kill her hours ago, only this time, it was standing over her petrified sister, seemingly drawing what appeared to be at least a full pint of blood. As she entered, the shadow only gave her the slightest of glances, like a mad doctor reviewing his next patient, though it's words were barely comprehending of the situation it was about to find itself in.

'This looks bad, doesn't it?'

* * *

In a split second, the guards had left their places at the witch's back, and surged onward as one single mass. Girius himself only gently tossed the blood pack onto Anna's still body, before he rounded the gurney, placing himself between the dying woman and the cohort of inept bladesmen.

Though he was hardly able to match Plinus, and more than often prefered the caution offered by a rifle scope, Girius had come too far to fail now.

Distaining grace for brute force, the Guardsman ducked beneath the incoming blows and charged into the unarmored bodies. With a carapace easily clocking in at one hundred kilograms to back him up, the Guardsman simply sent the troop flying, as he lifted them off the ground, and ended his momentum in a split second.

Then he too was sent flying, only, without any application of brute force. Well, if one didn't consider a train of solid ice impacting with their skull 'brute force'.

Recovering just in time before he was pushed against the wall, Girius rolled out from the dangerous deadlock, narrowly avoiding being turned to a paste as the wall of solid water slammed against the wall, destroying the space he had just occupied.

With a rather familiar figure entered the doorway, Girius, feeling he'd done enough to win back trust, chose to cut his losses. Maybe he admitted to himself, such was not entirely the case, and the decision in favor of departure was gravely influenced at the sight of the same witch that had nearly sent him and five others, including a Battlemaster, to the Great Father in an ice block.

Now, it was just him.

Content Anna would live another day, Girius threw himself for the window, just as the temperature began to drop once again.

In his blind charge, he didn't see the growing patch of ice before it was already too late. Skidding off his feet just before the jump, Girius was sent half careening into the stone wall beneath the window that was his salvation, or at least, his lower half was, as the upper body decided to depart without the sanction of his legs, and the hapless Guardsman was left dangling part way in the open window.

So much for the swift escape, he thought bitterly. Then something cold grabbed him by the cloak, and promptly dragged him back inside, face to face with a furious ice queen.

'What have you done?' she screamed at the shadow, before a fist struck the Guardsman's helmet, nearly freezing Girius' skull, and almost breaking Elsa's hand in the same process.

'Well you know how to say 'thank you', don't you?' Girius spat, 'you ungrateful sod.'

The carefree tone, for someone on death's precipice, was enough to put Elsa off guard long enough for Girius to rip his right hand downwards, breaking the ice that held his cloak down to the ground, before he delivered a kick into the side of Elsa's knee, driving his assailant into the ground, before the surrounded Guardsman threw himself backwards, straight out the window.

His recently freed hand seizing the drop line he'd left hanging upon entering the castle he was growing to hate, Girius couldn't resist sending one last insult through the opening in the stone wall, with a certain, single digit on his free hand raised in hostile farewell. After all, he told himself, in the light of saving a member of a royalty, one had some leeway.

Then, Girius realized the fates had not decreed such was the way of the universe, as it finally hit him that he'd chosen to grip a drop line turned to an icicle, with a hand already plated in the similarly slippery substance.

'Aw shi...'

The ground raced up to meet the Guardsman.

Then with the sudden odd shimmer of the ground beneath him; the telltale refraction of light found in an Omen's holo-cloak, Girius realized he was not alone.

* * *

Letting a sharp groan of pain escape her lips, Elsa managed to finally haul herself upright, her damaged leg throbbing in agony, only to find a magnificent and terrible sight before her eyes, as a floating platform, more akin to a flattened, miniature whale, with it's completely curved surfaces, and two extended pectoral flippers holding it up in it's unnatural vertical ascent, rose before his eyes. It's hollow interior glowered bright against the dark night, illuminated by unknown sources within the craft. And at it's center, stood four of the shadows he'd seen the previous night; two of them still sat in their seats, practically uncaring for the fact they were within a stone's throw of the Snow Queen, whilst the other two stood carefully at it's center; their step unwavering on the moving surface.

She had enough time to realize that one; namely, the one that looked far worse for the wear, with ice crystals still lining his cloak, and his equipment strewn in various, disordered patterns across his body, was the same one she'd just thought committed suicide moments ago. But the other was unmistakable; the same piercing stare, and an eagle upon it's chest.

The same one that had led the first assault. The one that had pinned a blade into her leg, and nearly impaled Kristoff with a thrown blade, before leaving an entire company of Arendelle's finest in the infirmary.

A series of bolts flying over her head finally caused the two calm figures to drop their facade, as they ducked for cover against the crossbow bolts and spears hurled for their skulls, before the monstrous jaw of the metal beast snapped shut, removing the black cloaks from sight, before the sleek craft was able to drift away into the night, the only evidence of it remaining being the two sapphires under it's fins that drove it onward, until they too disappeared in a sorcerous flicker of light.

However, other matters soon took over.

All thought of the Omen's sudden appearance gone from her mind, Elsa raced back to her sister's side; her feet gripping the icebound floors with careful precision, as she joined a red faced Kristoff beside the makeshift operating table. The mountain man was practically sweating buckets, having just returned with ill news, only to arrive half way through a rescue attempt on the Princess; one that nearly killed the Queen herself. As if one scare wasn't enough for the day.

'Anna?' he asked, barely daring to hope. Quickly, he withdrew the blade lodged in her arm, but it was too late; whatever substance had once been held in the bag he'd originally thought to be her blood had long been distributed into already poisoned fluid. If it wasn't enough to kill her the first time; now they had brought God-knew-what to...

He noticed the red linen, and then the slightest brush of movement past his fingertips.

'Hey there, Kris,' a faint voice, barely audible, sounded in his ear. There was more, but it was lost amid his choked sob of joy, as he wrapped his arms around the Princess in relief.

'Kristoff, you're killing me,' Anna managed, before Kristoff realized her wound made an embrace impractical at the moment, and he quickly released her, mumbling his apologies once again, drawing a smile from his wife.

'Elsa,' Anna whispered, finally seeing her sister; concealing the most of her face in her hands, before she finally allowed them to drop, revealing the tears of relief, as she carefully sat aside her supine sister.

'How do you feel?'

'Strangely better for the wear,' she grimaced, trying to rise, her limbs once again outrunning logic, before Elsa placed a hand upon hers, bidding her to lie still.

'Anna,' the Queen said gently, staying the movements of her sister, 'just rest for now; you're not ready to start riding off again, and we still don't know what that they placed in you.'

'I'm fine Elsa,' the stubborn woman replied, although, as the adrenaline laced within the blood concoction began to falter, and her fatigue returned, she couldn't help deny lying down for a bit more.

That was until a terrific thunderclap shattered the relatively peaceful night, sending the temperatures of the room plummeting once more in the shock of the detonation, even as Kristoff threw himself over the still figure to shield her from another blast, similar to the previous night. But this time, it was far and distant. And yet, it's volume could have been mistaken to have the source originated from mere meters away.

Finally content that they were under no immediate danger, Kristoff rolled off the table and dashed for the window, to see a long plume of smoke and fire rising from the town; in the same direction the strange iron beast had soared just moments ago.

'What is it?' Elsa demanded anxiously, arms still spread out as she placed herself between the door and her immobilized kin, wary of another incursion.

'They're attacking the town!' Kristoff's voice shot back, before he turned about, dashing for the door.

'I'm on my way,' Anna mumbled, earning the incredulous gaze of both standing occupants of the room.

'And this is why I still don't trust your judgement,' Kristoff replied dryly, though he couldn't quite keep a straight face as he turned for the door at a run. 'Just rest for now Anna.'

'And who's going to save you when Sven's busy?' The joking glance in Anna's face quickly faded though, before she held out a single, gentle hand. 'Be careful.'

'Always am,' the mountain man noted quickly, before he departed by the doorway, falling in line with another detachment of the grim faced guards, their footsteps quickly fading into the distance.

Kristoff's reply had done little to put Anna at ease, particularly with the unexpected roar upon the winter air. Even so, amid the confusion of the recent turn of events, no one thought to follow the trail of fire in the sky that painted the terrific silhouette in the sky, as it continued to beat it's scaled wings against the ground, continuously bathing the town, or more specifically an iron carcase that had not existed in Arendelle's fields more than a minute ago, in fire and death.

* * *

Far off in the distance, matters were significantly dissimilar to the hastily perceived events from the castle's distant view, as Varro clambered out of the smouldering wreck of Tullius' Omen, before he tumbled out of the nearly vertically aligned transport.

Wheezing for breath driven from his lungs by the brunt impact of the nose dive, while his helmet's AI continued to reconfigure itself after such trauma, providing an endless stream of nonsensical data to his eyes, Varro shut down the data feeds, only to watch row upon row of serrated teeth, each the length of a spear, fill his vision, and a miniature sun begin to form within the beast's throat.

Instincts throwing him aside, the Battlemaster propelled himself out of the Wyvern's furious gaze, just in the nick of time as it scorched the ground in hellblood; the horrific fluid bubbling and clinging to anything in it's path, before the fire set it all ablaze in another bout of the demon's rage, even as it's yellow eyes tracked the shadow evade it's first attempt to end Hadrius Varro.

'You know,' a voice echoed in Varro's ear, 'I just think this world hates us, period. We've been dropped twice, nearly turned into an icicle, thrown out a window, and...'

'You're not helping, Girius!' Varro screamed back down the feed, his feet clearing the ground, flinging the Battlemaster into the relative cover of a low ditch, as another burst of fire erupted from the Wyvern's throat, narrowly scorching the Battlemaster's cloak. The smallest amount of the hellblood was caught upon the black fabric, but, upon the flame resistant cloth of the Guard, and the existing downfall of snow in the winter of Arendelle, it was quick to die down. Even so, Varro knew that it wouldn't take much more to cook anyone inside their armored shell, even if they were encased in carapace.

The howling, two legged horror continued to spout it's flames, and it was then that Varro realized he'd made a dangerous mistake; the ditch he'd trusted his life with was actually none other than a pile of shoveled snow.

In the blink of a moment, he dove out into the open yet again, catching the monster off guard, as he barreled forth, blazing the entirety of the hellfire pistol into it's scaled armor, to little effect. If the rounds penetrated the outer layer of the scaled flesh, the beast showed little sign of injury, if only mild irritation at his defiance. It's barbed tail already a blitz of movement for the Battlemaster's chest, the serrated edge sheared through carapace like a blade through parchment; Varro's instinctive turn to face the beast side-on being the only thing to save his life, as the tail punched through his right arm alone, rather than his heart.

Then a thunderous roar of gunfire cut over the blazing field; heralding the arrival of Girius, Plinus and Quintus, as the three Guardsmen opened fire upon the winged beast. The deadly explosive munitions of the hellfire rounds finally found their use; tearing apart the fragile flesh that composed the Wyvern's unarmored wings, grounding the once-terror of the skies.

Not that it made a great impact on the Wyvern's already deadly capabilities.

A breath, a roar and a crack later, and all three Guardsmen were sent back to the treeline they'd been thrown into by the uncontrolled descent, by the sharp crack of the monster's tail.

With it's attention fully focused on the doomed Guardsmen though, Varro found the opening he needed; the Omen's arm's locker had been torn open amidst the furious assault of the Wyvern's claws, and now most of it's contents lay strewn over the landscape for use.

Amongst them, lay a Viper Anti tank rifle; casually leaning against the ruined wall of home unlucky enough to be struck in the transport's crash.

Immediately, Varro was off his feet, his suit and body already flooding with stimulants, dulling the harsh throbbing pain in his trigger arm, readying it for use. While the railgun was more or less incorporated for gutting the crews of a heavily armored vehicle; using it's high speed to penetrate the defensive shield, before the delayed explosive at it's center could detonate at the core of any armored compartment, Varro saw little difference with the Wyvern before him; an armored shell, with a soft and vulnerable inside.

Sticking to the road, regardless of how brightly it was lit, to avoid the deeper snow, Varro sprinted for the deadly weapon by leaps and bounds, nimbly outstepping any still in the process of fleeing the battlefield.

_Twenty more meters_.

A jet of fire cut past his face, and the Battlemaster was forced to sink to his knees in an instant, bringing his forehead just under the scorching jet of hellblood.

_Fifteen_

The thunder of hooves should have warned him, as something slammed into his right side, and promptly sent the Battlemaster soaring through the air.

Only; he wasn't fully airborne. Rather, he was caught in the antlers of one seriously irritate reindeer, and in the full sight of it's rider; the blonde idiot he'd nearly gutted just hours ago. He had enough time to briefly consider the fact he owed some apology to Plinus, after falling into the same trap that had garnered some amusement amongst the Fifty Ninth, his situation changed yet again.

Sven's only response to his new passenger was simply to switch from an all out gallop to a full stop in the fraction of a second. It was then that Varro was sent truly through the air, before he cracked noisily against the wall of a thatched, wooden, and fragile barn.

Combined with the velocity he'd left the antlers, and the tremendous weight of his suit; only supported by the servo motors encased within it's embrace, the Battlemaster was sent straight through the wooden frame, crashing and tumbling through it's wild interior.

By the time he'd picked himself together, he was on the wrong end of maybe a half dozen blades, hefted by the Royal guard.

It would have been a survivable situation, provided the six men had actually bothered to check their surroundings, which would have quickly given them the far larger threat to fixate their attention on. Unfortunately, fate was stacked against Varro ever since he'd plotted that blasted jump into the Sol system, as the guards continued to stand, daring him to make a move; completely ignorant of the hell that raged just beyond the Battlemaster's head; on the far side of the barn.

That was until the howl of a monster rang through the ears of all those within the valley, and Varro seized the moment without hesitation, as he let the tip of his drop line; already concealed in the palm of his hand, fly in a fluid arch with his curved angle of throw.

A pull later, and the forest of legs before him collapsed into a disordered tangle of limbs; still bound together by the thin line of alloys, not a moment too soon, as the Wyvern's uncontrolled tail tore through the barn's side, narrowly soaring over the heads of the guards the Battlemaster had just pulled to the ground.

He scrambled upward in a mad fury of motion, his armored fists dislodging any still daring to delay his fight to aid his brothers. A hand gripped his cloak, only to be twisted painfully out of it's socket by the Battlemaster's roll forward; straight into another that was immediately confused by the sheer force of almost two hundred and fifty kilograms of genetically altered muscle, bone and the Guardsman's carapace landing directly upon his forehead.

Varro's respite though, was short lived, as a dozen more silhouettes appeared upon the bridge connecting the village and the accursed castle they'd failed miserably to infiltrate twice already; each hefting what appeared to be a mechanically operated bow. At their backs, a second platoon; equivalent in size to first he'd battled the previous night, marched to war; each locked in tight formation as they thundered for their target.

Varro could only hope that it was the Wyvern, before several of the bows spat their payloads for the Battlemaster; each narrowly missing the elusive shadow by distances ranging from several meters, to the one that struck barely a half foot from Varro's armored hand.

He was almost tempted to scream an order to shift their priorities toward the common threat, when the Wyvern's second scream into the night pulled their gazes to the bloodied, but deadly monster.

'Clear the bridge!' Varro thundered, but it was too late, as the narrow walkway lit up in fire and death. He saw perhaps seven unfortunate souls managing to hurl themselves off the scorching edge, into the water below, drowning the flames that consumed their skin, but for most, it was already over. Where a cohort royal guards had once stood, now only the charred skeletons of almost forty men burned on the ground; their skulls still contort with the agony of their final moments. Some; the men who'd composed the rear of the doomed formation, still writhed in pain, as the hellblood refused to silence them quickly and mercifully.

Then, everything changed.

The fires, despite their unnatural ability to resist any attempt to quash their rage, died at the snap of a finger. The few howls of the survivors died into the wind, as the flames licking at ravaged skin were put out in a blast of cold, blizzard air, and numbed the burns they'd endured facing the winged beast.

A blizzard had overtaken an inferno.

* * *

After long hours of intuitive practice, landing rapidly upon a frozen surface held few dangers for Elsa, as she dismounted the petrified horse she'd ridden in pursuit of the first company dispatched to the threat.

If the last days had taught her anything though, it was that the world she knew was quickly going to Hell. The mysterious black cloaks, and now a half dragon, born from stories of legend, or the bottom of an ale casket, threatened her lands and people.

Her hands still held out before her, keeping a rolling wall of ice between the surviving men of the first assault, and the furious beast that continued to howl it's rage into the night, Elsa swore she'd personally end the renegade, cloaked assassins that had unleashed yet another terror on her home.

That was until she saw the damage to the monster's face. What she had once thought to be a scaled plate of diamond was in fact rendered to bloody scarred and loose flesh, with the Wyvern's jaw actually partially hanging to one side; the other almost severed completely, save for the barest sinews of contort flesh.

It didn't take a philosopher to realize the crossbow bolts carried by her men could not inflict such terrifying results on a nightmare.

The damage to it's jawline, crippling as it might have appeared, did not prevent the Wyvern from spotting new prey it was willing to take on as it's next challenge.

Elsa had barely enough time to react when the next blast of hellblood impacted the ice shield she'd thrown up in blockage of the bridge, even as the second platoon at her back let whatever ordnance they had go, to little effect. Spears and bolts simply ricochetted off it's steel hide, it's gold rimmed eyes gloating at it's impending victory behind the fireball that completely obstructed Elsa's sight upon the creature.

Not that seeing the Wyvern would have helped her much, she thought grimly. A second wave of crystals hit the boiling point of contact between the inferno, and the liquid that composed her first efforts to hold back the demon.

Fear was no longer the enemy. Without it, the monster would have probably killed her within seconds, as new layers of shielding formed in the place of the last, maintaining the firestorm at bay.

And then, like a switch had been thrown, the fireball died.

Immediately, Elsa's steadfast defense became a tumbling assault, rolling back the Wyvern, reclaiming lost ground as she took step after step toward the monster that had come for her home.

It was then that she realized her error too late, as the long tail at the creature's back readied to propel itself into it's foe.

'Get down!' she cried, almost concurrently as the barbed blade shattered the transparent steel with terrifying ease, and ripped through the unbraced company.

A single swipe sent three men flying, and a stunned Elsa to the thawing ground, the last voices in her ears being the final death calls of her men.

* * *

'My Queen!'

It was only moments later when the short bout of darkness abandoned her mind and, dizzily, she was able to wave off the frantic guard, even as others surged forward to fill the void left by the last sweep, but, more than anything, Elsa was quite amazed to find everyone still alive, aside from those who'd been swept into the water, shredded by long serrations of bone, and the poor man who had met his end upon the barbed tip, as the blood stained tail sailed into the air, retreating for a second strike.

Another scatter of light dazzled her gaze. Immediately, the wall of ice came up, before she realized it had not actually originated from the Wyvern's throat. Rather, they were upon it's already tattered face, drawing new streaks of blood and sinew from the enraged monster, as it turned to face it's new attacker.

'Here, Patch face!' a disembodied voice bellowed out, seconds before a third streak of light hammered the dragon back. Willing her eyes to refuse instincts, and follow the shot, Elsa tore her gaze to it's origin, to watch a pair of the black cloaks hefting a long pipe; far larger than the one she'd managed to destroy in Varro's hands. In fact, it's length likely matched the height of the figures holding it, and it was deadly.

All thoughts for the royal company upon the bridge evaporated from the Wyvern's mind. With an eye already mutilated beyond use by the Guard Viper that continued to torment it, as it charged for another round, yet another thunderous jet of flame erupted from the creature's torn throat; a curse on the wind for it's hunters who quickly vanished in both the night and fire.

The threat of the fireteam finally settled in the demon's mind, it's gaze returned to the more sizable, but insignificant danger. Though the men of Arendelle had managed to cross the bridge amid the firepower of the two Guardsmen, and finally were able to present a loose formation that would not mean an immediate end for them all, it also presented a greater amount of ground for to Elsa to cover.

But such was irrelevant; with the crude mind of a demon placing the danger of blades and bows beneath it, the Wyvern turned to the only threat that could even hope to harm it, as it's throat warmed to fire again.

It's barbed tail tearing apart any who strayed too far from the melting beam of hellblood that raged from it's maw, the Wyvern resumed it's unrelenting assault upon the Queen, syching apart a trio of men with a single flick of the long whip at it's back as it continued to bathe the crystal fortifications in a stream of lava. As the ice thinned yet again, Elsa knew it was the end, when a single silhouette against the torrent of fire changed the balance of the battle yet again.

Abandoning his grip on Sven's back, the mad and unthinkable decision between the pair to hurl Kristoff at a trajectory into the Wyvern's face was enough to shift the conflict one last time. Where others continued in vain to strike at the armored claws of the monster, upon the wrent head of the Wyvern, there was no lasting protection; only mortal flesh surrounding a single remaining eye.

He should have guessed the creature wouldn't take too lightly on the loss of it's last orb for sight.

Screaming and bellowing its rage to the heavens as the ice pick hit home, the Wyvern's erratic movements quickly proved too much for him to hold on, and Kristoff was sent hurtling through the cold air, sending up an explosion of white powder in an ungrateful, rump-first impact in the snow. He was able to take one last glimpse at the blind creature, before he slumped back into the snow, fatigue and a throbbing pain in his leg where the beast's jaw had torn flesh from bone, overtook him.

Unable to see as it was, the Wyvern refused to die. If anything, the last blow had turned it into a berserker of the old times. While it's inconsistent fire was now unarmed, blind sweeps across the ground with tail and long claws continued to ravage the warriors of Arendelle.

A man beside Elsa died soundlessly, as the barbed tail punched through his chest, before his body was lifted into the dark sky above the embittered company. Her own efforts were to little avail; the barriers of ice little match for the Wyvern's uncompromising strength and with a groan of dismay, Elsa realized that the monster had only been toying with them before. The duel between ice and fire was irrelevant, as a back hand strike from sharpened claws, unaimed as it was, shattered her barrier, and rendered a man, who'd entrusted his safety with her, to bloody shreds.

She felt sick, as she watched the untold carnage evolve: men dying in her name, against a creature that would lay waste to all. Another soldier was crushed underfoot, whilst another two were whipped backward with a careless swing of the tail, leaving them lying still in the snow.

Then it cracked about in the air, and darted straight for her.

Something weighing the approximate mass of a mountain barreled into her side, catapulting the Queen, and a stout, but fortunate guard, out of harm's way, as the sharpened bone tore through the space she'd once occupied.

'Thanks...' The words died in her throat as she found herself before the gaze of the Battlemaster; eyes scarlet red as they gazed past her, at something well beyond her point of view.

It didn't matter; she was close to finished, and it wouldn't take much for the shadow to finish what he'd started yesterday, if the man he'd tackled hadn't recovered quickly enough to come to her defense. The blade plunged in between the black carapace, staggering the hunched Battlemaster, before the hilt was ripped from the poor man's arms, and three brutal blows to the chin left him lying concussed in the white powder around their feet.

They hung there for the slightest fraction of a second; each daring the other to claim their life; Varro's blade hefted loosely in his left hand; his right still clutching his recently opened wound, whilst the blizzard continued to blaze around Elsa, as she rose to confront the old terror, a satisfying chill in her fingertips returning once more.

And then, he was gone. True to his name, the Shadow Guardsman simply faded into the darkness of the night in a single bound, flying past the Queen like a wraith, unburdened by the materials or beings of the mortal realm.

* * *

In truth, little sorcery was at work, as Varro glided past his quarry; he simply had enough mind to keep to the task at hand.

Letting the blade fall from cold fingers, Varro dove into the ditch Girius and Quintus had made their last stand upon, before the Wyvern's fury had nearly claimed their lives.

'Kick his ass,' Quintus hissed, hefting the Viper as best he could for the Battlemaster to seize.

Gently prying the rifle from hands more akin to ash than carapace and flesh, Varro pulled the rifle upright, and sighted upon the thrashing monster, driving all thought of his brothers from his mind.

Above all else, if they were to die, their sacrifice had to be for a purpose.

One round left in the chamber.

A single hand disabled the suppression field attuned around the heavy cannon, before the Battlemaster pulled the pipe upright, his bloody hand seizing the trigger with a vengeance.

The high pitched charge of the Viper was all he needed to turn the monster to face him one last time.

He let the trigger go, even as the Wyvern howled it's final vengeance; a last burst of flame for it's killer.

Quite frankly, Varro did not care anymore. He'd seen almost too much of war to continue anyway. It was enough to watch the final round punch down the beast's throat, into it's fiery core, before it lit it's own fire within the monster.

At the same moment, the dying flame at it's heart was unleashed one last time, consuming Varro, and all those around him, in the flames of the damned.

Strange, Varro managed to ponder, that in spite of the boiling temperatures that should have encased him, all he was able to feel was a burning cold of frostbite.

It didn't matter much anyway; he'd be seeing the Great Father soon regardless of who dealt the death blow.


	6. Shadows and Veils

_Trust? Trust is an illusion of security you should reserve for your battle brothers, and none other.  
__Indrikus Hypax; Battlemaster of the Nineteenth Shadow Guard_

* * *

'Just tell me how many,' Elsa demanded, already bracing for the inevitable results.

'Sixty eight dead,' Kristoff read off, his eyes still glued to the hand scrawled report by the surviving captain of the companies dispatched; his other counterpart having met his end under the Wyvern's breath, 'and almost everyone else is injured to some degree, mostly burns or puncture wounds, although none of the outstanding injuries should be life-threatening.'

If he believed that would bring some comfort to the Queen, he was sadly mistaken.

'Sixty eight?' she asked, the regret in her wavering voice all too evident, and the small jets of cold that flew from her fingertips quickly spiraled into a miniature glacier forming, completely burying the flames she'd been attempting to douse, to near overkill levels. In an instant, Kristoff leapt back at the sudden explosive force of the conjured material, sensing the turmoil that had wrought such an outburst.

'It's not your fault Elsa,' he tried, 'none of us could have seen...' he trailed off, unsure of what he had indeed spent the night facing. In truth, they all knew what they saw, but it was almost an absurd notion to become the first to formally acknowledge that they'd just witnessed a Wyvern lay waste to half the town.

'I sent them to their deaths.' She spoke at a near whisper, simply gazing at the palms of her hands. 'I could have saved so many more if...'

'Elsa,' Kristoff interjected, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, 'none of this is your doing. But I can promise you this; the next time it happens, we'll be ready. You are the Queen of Arendelle, if you fall, we all fall. I don't mean to sound cold hearted, but you need to start thinking about those that are still alive. We can mourn the dead, but there's still the living to fight for.'

She watched quietly as he hobbled off into the dying night; the slightest of the sun's rays beginning to peak over the mountains that had once protected Arendelle, only to reveal a scene from a nightmare, as charred huts lay in the wind, and the sons of Arendelle continued to be cleared from the streets, motionless beneath black sheets as they awaited burial.

Kristoff was wrong.

It was her burden to bear.

'Queen Elsa!'

The voice spun her about, to find the captain of the second company slowing to a walk as he threw a salute in her direction with his good hand; his right still bound in a sling after getting too close to the barbed tail of the Wyvern.

'What is it, Henrik?'

'I apologize for the inconvenience, my Queen,' the captain quickly conversed, 'but we need your assistance with the transport of the ... prisoners. Moving them is proving, difficult to say the least.'

'I'll be over there soon,' Elsa replied, before she gestured to the small collected crowds that rimmed the streets in the wake of the previous night's fiasco. 'Take as many men as you need, and get anyone displaced by the attack off the streets. Open the Castle's West wing up to any who need shelter while we sort out this mess.'

'At once, your majesty.'

Content that her people would see another day, at least for now, she began her lonely walk across the town turned battlefield.

The Wyvern's corpse still lay where it had fallen; still encircled by a dozen men, ever wary of an unexpected awakening by the monster. And yet, despite everything it had revealed itself to be capable of, Elsa saw little lasting threat in it, aside from it serving as another reminder of her failure to protect lives. It's scales leaked blood upon any man's touch, as did the creature's life fluid continue to seep from it's open maw, forcing Elsa to turn away from the sight.

All in all, it greatly resembled something that had simply caved in on itself when the last streak of light had entered it's throat, and met it's heart.

And that was the crux of the matter, she knew, as her paces slowed upon reaching the small, scorched embankment that was currently surrounded by at least thirty of Henrik's standing company. She didn't know why the Guardsman had refused to kill her, despite it's earlier desires to enact such, nor did she know what had possessed her to spare the ones that had nearly ended her sister moments barely hours ago.

Perfectly preserved as it was the second her power had lept up around them; the black cloak that had claimed the Wyvern remained as he was, locked as he was with the strange weapon grafted in his hands by the ice. It could almost have been mistaken that it was acting in defense of the two other crippled warriors at it's back.

Almost. After seeing the sheer brutality they were already capable of, Elsa had significant doubts if these 'things' shared the human ability for compassion. If they were human beneath that plate, they had certainly erased such a gift in favor of war.

Silently, trying to control her emotions toward the three, she allowed only the slightest of her heart to melt, thawing away the ice that locked them to the ground, but little else was given the berth of freedom.

'Take them to the dungeons,' she ordered carefully, 'but after that, no one touches them until I get down there. '

There was a series of affirmations from the assembled guardsmen, and carefully, they began to hoist the statues out of the shallow depression in the ground, though such was easier said than done. Unaided by the powered servos linked to each Guardsman's nervous system, the weight of the suits was easily enough to flatten a lone man.

Leaving the company to find it's own way, as a statue was finally hauled up by over a dozen men, Elsa turned back for the Castle, her mind still set upon the greatest worry that had fueled her evening battle.

Her footsteps quickly accelerated into a run.

* * *

As work continued on, with ice picks and other such tools being broken out to aid in the transport of the captured Guardsmen, few gave a second glimpse at the silent corpse of the crashed Omen, lying still in the calm breeze. Indeed, many an eye were locked with either the spectacle of nightmares locked in ice, or the eerie beast that continued to lie dormant in the field. Though it's insides were gone, or turned to pulp unusable for sustaining life, it continued to keep people at a wide berth, from both the Wyvern's final resting ground, and the crippled Omen at it's back.

Content there was no one in earshot, Plinus let himself drop the last meter into the Omen, before an involuntary growl was drawn from gritted teeth. While the Wyvern's stab had managed to avoid any organ damage, the amount of blood he'd lost from the five inch hole in his right side was still telling, as he slammed against the wreckage.

'You square?' Tullius' voice cut down the comms, 'hang on...almost got it...'

A snap of metal dropped part of the wall Plinus had fallen against, to admit an equally battered Tullius. The Raven was hardly better for the wear, as one arm dangled loosely to his side, broken in at least a half dozen ways, whilst his other hefted the small cutter the Guardsman had been firing for the better part of the night, sawing his way out of a cockpit both melted shut, and buried in deep earth.

'I'll let you judge that,' Plinus coughed, before his hand fumbled for the comm set that was fixed into the wall he was currently using for support. His own unit had been crushed in the landing, but there was still hope for the long range device embedded within the transport.

'Steadfast,' he managed, 'Omen fourteen is splashed, say again, fourteen is on the ground. Come in.'

There was a burst of static in reply, and Plinus would have let a curse rip from his lips, if only he was not on the brink of death. Carefully, Tullius took the bead, letting the hacking Guardsman rest.

'Fourteen,' the bead suddenly cracked, jolting Plinus back upright, 'How many standing?'

'Steadfast, we have a Raven and one Shadow,' Tullius replied, 'we have a Wraith behind enemy lines, say again; Wraith and two Shadows are in hostile hands. Reclamation is not possible with current forces.'

There was a brief moment of silence as the Guardsman on the other end digested the data the Raven had just relayed. After all, it was fairly unheard of for a Battlemaster to be captured in such a day and age. More often than not, they were simply killed on the spot.

'Hunker down and remain on site, fourteen,' Victus finally instructed. 'Shadows are en route.'

* * *

'You know,' the chirpy voice sounded off in her ear again, 'I'm pretty sure this is not what Andor meant by 'resting', you know what I mean?'

'He doesn't know everything,' Anna replied through gritted teeth, as she teetered dangerously with a third step, before she was lent another bout of support from the ever caring bundle of living snow. Quite frankly, Anna simply was not cut out for staying in the palace over periods exceeding a day. Such tended to happen after spending almost eighteen years locked behind the same gates, she reflected with the slightest of grins, though the burning pain in her right hip quickly dragged her back to the unwelcome, present situation.

In fact, after recovering from his unexpected greeting with the Guardsman's fist, Andor had been perplexed at the rate the injury had sealed itself, although, given his charge to keep her alive, he had probably regretted letting the Princess know of her improving condition. If that had been the case, perhaps he could have avoided the strange situation of a sane patient attempting to break free from the confines of her room, if only to be of use.

In the end, he'd been forced to remove the set of crutches from the room, in an effort to keep Anna from driving herself into the ground.

Andor should not have guessed containing her, with her sister and husband in potential danger, would have been such an easy matter. Indeed, it had not been more than a minute since he'd left the room before the princess had taken her first tentative steps with the ever present aid of Olaf.

While the small cut in the crook of her arm still ached with dull pain after the needle's removal, Anna could not help but deny the strange elation that was swimming through her head. After a second near death experience, she would have expected to be somewhat winded, but instead, she, or at least her brain told her whilst it was under the influence of stimulants that were not designed for humans, felt there was enough fire in her limbs to hike back up the North mountain and back down by nightfall.

'Anna,' Olaf quipped up, the early laughter gone, 'I may not be the castle doc, but I don't think this is a very good idea.'

'You already agreed to it,' she shot back jokingly, 'almost...'

She realized the sun was coming up, and she was still on the sixth step.

'Not again,' she groaned in exasperation, before a series of footsteps pounded off the floorboards outside, and Anna found herself unable to move back into her 'suggested' post on the tabletop in time, having probably taken over an hour to get even six steps away from it.

_This can't end well_, she thought gloomily. The next time the grouchy old man departed, she'd probably be chained to the table.

The doors creaked open, to admit a Kristoff who, from the bloody tourniquet on his leg, had seen better days.

'Alright, where is he?' he mumbled aloud, as the sight met his eyes, 'I'm going to kill him. I told him not to leave you alone.'

'People have places to be,' Anna tried, still trying to hold herself upright, 'what happened to you? You look like you got mauled by a wolf.'

'I don't know what that thing was,' Kristoff admitted, instinctively leaning his head down to survey the bloodied limb, 'but it wasn't a wolf. And nice try, by the way; changing the subject like that. What do you think you're doing anyway?'

The word 'help' seemed to come to mind, but truth be told, Anna had to admit, there wasn't a whole great deal her presence would have altered the outcome of whatever transpired beyond the walls. Well, maybe aside from another corpse.

'Trying to kill yourself?' Olaf offered unhelpfully.

'Does it matter?' Anna asked in return, eyes still darting between Kristoff's eyes and the wound on his leg. 'Has Andor seen to that yet?'

'I thought I'd find him here,' the mountain man replied, with a tone that clearly implied hostile intentions when he found the doctor that had left his post, leaving the task of overseeing the patient to two guards who weren't even in the room, and a snowman who had only discovered the hazards of summer when he was about to be turned into a puddle.

'What happened down there anyway?'

Kristoff's mouth was simply left half open for a good thirty seconds before he let any sound escape his lungs, as he tried to collect his thoughts on what on earth had just sent sixty eight men to their graves, and come close to taking his leg off; with the jaws somehow narrowly avoiding any major arteries or veins by a fraction of a margin, it was a miracle that he was still able to walk to say the least.

'I...' he dragged out, 'don't know. I don't know. We've had quite a bit of crazy going on over the past days but this...topped it.'

'And what was _this_?'

'We're going to find out,' a familiar voice put in from the doorway, 'the black cloaks have a lot to answer for.'

* * *

It was the abnormal temperature in his side that woke the Battlemaster. With a breach in the usually sealed suit, and a suitable layer of ice encasing the Guardsman, it was little wonder Varro jolted awake, to find himself once again in the wrong place.

While the Guardsman was bound to an iron chair by chains and irons, such would have held little issues, had his carapace not been encrusted with a layer of frozen water.

Without the ability to even twitch his fingertips, let alone reach the blade in his wrist, escape would be problematic to say the least.

Deciding he could be immobile for quite some time, Varro craned his eye balls as best he could to survey his cell, with his neck also embedded in the rock solid material, thereby restricting grave amounts of movement.

It was also then that he heard the unmistakable rage of a chained Guardsman, let alone one who had just endured the worst twenty four hours of his long life.

'...you all!' The voice that echoed off the walls were certainly that of Girius', and for that, Varro could let a small grudging grin break through his scarred lips. By the sound of things, he wasn't even injured. No, he was just plain pissed.

'You hear me? Your heads are all gonna roll, and I'll do you a favor; I'll keep them fresh in this crap for a long time! In fact, why the hell not? I'll just eat them raw! There ain't much in there to begin with anyway!'

Varro could only chuckle quietly to himself, as he imagined how the nervous humans would take to having something claiming to feast on the relatively minute contents of their skulls, in lockdown before their eyes, and clearly dealing with anger management, but humor would have to wait for another time, as a door's opening somewhere out of his line of sight silenced the Guardsman.

Then he was off again, although this outburst was far more personal, before the slightest crackling of unnatural wind carried through the dungeon, and left only silence. Well, silence if one disregarded the howling laughter over the comms. Varro wasn't to know it of course, with at two feet of stone blocking his sight, but in Quintus' mind at least, burned and scarred as he was, there was little more of a hilarious sight than watching the Stormcaller of Arendelle using her powers for something else rather than battering the Guard.

This time, she'd completed what he'd been trying since memory awakened. With a thin layer of ice layered through his helmet's front side and speakers, she'd finally managed to shut Girius up.

If she managed to survive doing the same to Ignus, Quintus could have almost thanked her.

Almost.

* * *

'You know you didn't have to come down here, right?' Elsa reminded her sister, for the trillionth time.

'Worry about yourself,' Anna returned, rolling her eyes upward, 'you're the one that managed to irritate this lot.'

'That's putting it lightly,' their bucktoothed companion added, as he found himself on the wrong end of a Guardsman's soul blazing stare. Though it's mouth was sealed shut, even the optimistic snowman found little to joke about the furious entity, and he quickly found himself turning away, quietly humming a soft tune in the hopes of losing some hostile attention in a hurry. 'They don't look the average 'nice guy', if you know what I mean.'

Kristoff on the other hand, simply opted to retain a course of silence from the onset, the wound in his leg already in a fair condition, allowing him to avoid a telltale limp in his gait.

There was little denying his unease at moving past two of the black cloaks; one of whom would obviously attempt to tear them limb from limb if he could have broken it's restraints. The other was far more stable, content with silence as it rocked it's head back and forth, giving little indication to the humans as to the entertainment found beneath.

But most of all was the last entity to come to their sight.

Rounding the last corner, Elsa could not help but allow a surge of animosity to flow through her veins, as her eyes found the last shadow. The rough tourniquet wrapped about her injured thigh did little to improve her outlook on how well this would turn out.

But the human drive for knowledge would always overturn the compulsion for caution.

That being said, now that she had a chance to study the specimen, the armored knight was clothed unlike anything she'd ever seen before. The armor plate that concealed it was certainly metallic, from her past experiences with the matter, but up and close, it still refused to reflect the slightest of light; something she had previously attributed to the evening hours of their previous encounters. Even the sigil it bore across it's chest; an eagle carrying a bladed weapon across it's claws, was hardly the coloured standard any knight bore; rather, it was the barest tinge of silver, dabbled in darkness, as if the shine had been removed by some strange process, leaving only the slightest inkling of colour on the matted suit encased in ice. The same applied to the hooded cloak the assassin wore; matted as colourless as a moonless night.

The shadow's armor was also avoided symmetry; while the black cloak's right shoulder was guarded by a regular sized pauldron, it's left was suitably titanic in proportion to the flesh beneath, as if it held a rectangular shield over it's upper arm that stretched from the furious spectre's neck to it's elbow. The carapace plate was hardly fresh from the forges; rent and scarred in at least a dozen places, but such could not remove the insignia embedded into the fixed shield; a gruesome depiction of a cracked skull, with a blade pinned into the supposed bone. Beneath, in embellished parchment, read the words _nunquam paenitere._ Whatever it was, Elsa was willing to wager it had something to do with the already established theme of death amongst Arendelle's unwanted visitors. Along one side of the grim sigil, there was a V, in a similar darkened tone to any of the Guardsman's symbols. On the other, was another similarly aligned set letters: IX.

'Finished gawking?' It enquired rudely, slanting it's head to one side to the slightest extent, although, in all likelihood, such was the limit of it's available movement with the glass case that surrounded the black cloak.

'Who are you?' Elsa asked, as curtly as she could, trying to abandon the gentle soul beneath the cold exterior in favor of the interrogation. Even Anna gave her a second glimpse, before she straightened her sights on the Battlemaster again. The shadow, on the other hand, did not seem impressed in the slightest.

'A better question would be what,' it replied sincerely, amid the robotic filters that masked it's true voice, 'rather than who.'

She'd long since suspected that such was the case, but Elsa had quietly hoped for something human to lie beneath that plate. Something they could understand, at least.

She realized the black cloak was awaiting another prompt.

'Do tell,' she returned, careful to control her temper. She didn't dare consider the possibilities of letting the thing loose, although, to think of it, the case of her losing it probably heralded it's certain demise, along with probably everyone in close proximity to her again.

She opted to keep it under control.

'Hadrius Varro,' it spoke again, almost snidely, but with the distortion filters embedded in the helmet, Elsa was again uncertain of what it's true tone carried once more. 'Titulian. Fifty-ninth Shadow Guard, at your service.'

'Shadow Guard?' Elsa had never heard the term, and judging by the confused glances Kristoff and Anna instinctively directed toward her, she knew she could expect little additional help there. 'What is that?'

'The collection of those who opt to fight in the dark, to contain what seeks to end us all.' the creature answered again. By now, Varro's fairly cryptic answers were not doing himself many favours in the Queen's eyes.

'Where did you come from?' Elsa demanded, trying to mentally file something away for a later analysis, 'Weselton? South?' She wasn't entirely sure if she'd enjoy where this went; if either nation had made both transgressions and military advancements of such kind, Elsa was uncertain what could be done in the face of either nation. However, Varro's answer only deepened the mystery of the black cloaks.

'Try looking upward,' he chuckled softly, only to then explode with laughter, as each member of the assembled party turned their gazes instinctively to the sky, or rather, the stone roof of the dungeons. 'Look beyond the sky.'

'Elsa, is he crazy or something?' Anna asked in her ear, careful to keep her voice as low as possible. Unfortunately, neither sister had counted on the hearing of the Guardsman; already honed by over a century of listening to the slightest indication of an unseen enemy, and further amplified by the helmet's audio receptors.

Anna might as well have bellowed the words out.

'I don't think insanity is found amongst the truth, Elsa,' he put in, after all, 'it is the fool who calls sense to be folly.'

'You picked now to quote Tarinius?'

'Shut up, Quintus,' Varro whispered back down the feed, before he reopened his helmet's audio filter, allowing his voice to return to those unlinked to the comm net. 'And believe me when I say some of the things I have to say may strain belief, but, hear me out. I know you and I didn't get off to the best of starts...'

'You can say that again,' Kristoff added on the side.

'Touchy,' the disembodied voice shot back. Indeed, it was nearly detached from the situation it's owner found itself in, as if the voice was another entity's altogether, merely using the Battlemaster as a conduit for communication.

Well, Varro thought ruefully, his calmer side was doing so. With Victus' team already on his display, and his long range comms down, initiating a countdown to another full scale firefight, alongside the fact he had a lot he was willing to explain yet faced the problem of inciting actual belief, it was decided that confidence to the point of idiocy might well be his only option to get through his situation alive. After all, few people were willing to toss their salvation out the window again when they learnt the apocalypse was coming. Then again, he wasn't sure if the Stormcaller applied to that category.

'I, and my brothers, are the hand of the Council. It's will dictates our actions, as do our blades shape it's future.'

'Which Council? Which city sent you, and would you cut it with the riddles?'

Another snort of laughter stifled Elsa further, as the thing continued to treat them like inferior beings, incapable of comprehending it's words.

'Great Father, you lot never learnt to work together, did you? Not cities, Elsa, not even nations. Worlds; whole species working together across the void of space.'

'Then what brought you out here?'

There was a slight pause before the shadow answered.

'Demons.'

* * *

Judging from the confounded and incredulous gazes he was offered in reply, Varro would have been a fool to believe they were well on the road to letting the past fall into the past.

'You already fought one,' he tried, 'the Wyvern in the fields; such was only the first of many.'

'There are others?' That was enough to send a chill through the stone walls, as Elsa wracked her mind for the figures she'd seen earlier. Sixty-eight. To kill one. 'How many more?'

'A soul reaper would carry at least twenty thousand,' Varro muttered absent mindedly, as he tried to do the math of working a crew size from the vessel he'd seen in orbit, before he realized his helmet's audio was still active. The temperature quickly plummeted.

'Twenty thousand?!' Although Anna never had full access to the Royal Guard's troop manifests, she knew it did not match a tenth of that number, probably numbering far, far less. It didn't help with the fact she'd seen the same report her sister had seen. Elsa, on the other hand, was simply rooted to the spot at the thought.

'How do we even know if you're not spitting lies?' Kristoff demanded.

'You don't,' the voice replied, 'but in two weeks, you'll know I spoke the truth. Although by that time, it'll be a little too late for me to say 'I told you so', because in all probability, we'll be dead.'

The Guardsman was confident, Elsa admitted. Almost to the point of arrogance, but there was a crude voice in her heart that told her it's warnings were not to be taken lightly. And yet, despite the hopelessness of the situation, she could sense there was something else behind the Guardsman's words. Something she could not stand for, after almost losing her sister to the shadows.

'You're proposing something, aren't you?' she asked tentatively. The red orbs shifted back onto her own.

'Very intuitive, Elsa,' it replied, 'when I said twenty thousand I did not mean creatures of the same...calibre as the Wyvern you faced, otherwise, we'd already be ash on the wind. Victory is achievable, but not while we stand alone.'

'An alliance? After nearly killing Anna?'

It had to come up sometime. If anything though, Varro was more surprised at the fact her sister had been brought to attention rather than the Stormcaller's own wounds. Then again, he'd been careful enough to miss the major arteries and veins, narrowly avoiding permanent damage, particularly without the use of any toxins. Girius, on the other hand, had come fairly close to sending the one called Anna to meet the Great Father a lot earlier than she'd expected.

'I'd rather refer to that as an unfortunate error in the heat of an operation,' Varro answered slowly, with as much care as an individual who'd spent a hundred years of his life on the battlefield, and zero in negotiation, 'and besides, I do believe Girius did make amends for his blunder earlier. You know; tripping over every bloody thing in his path, and probably half killing your sister again to save her, but you're still here, so I guess it turned out alright. Unless you're fobbing me off again, you clumsy twit!'

There wasn't much of a reply, save for the most hostile mumble that had ever crossed the Battlemaster's ears.

'I think he told you to stick your head in a pond until you see the Great Father,' Quintus' voice echoed back through the cells.

Strangely, Girius' rumblings quickly died away, content. Perhaps Quintus had struck gold after all. It didn't matter much anyway; the all too common exchange of friendly insults between the black cloaks behind their professional facade was enough to lower the guard of those present.

* * *

Indeed, the quick joust had given heads time to digest what had just been said, and, by instinct rather than actual belief, Elsa's eyes were invariably drawn to her sister's wound. Even though she'd seen it before making her way down to meet what she'd assumed to be a foreign assassin, the shadow's words were quickly eroding any doubts in her mind that their visitor the previous evening had done anything of real harm. Aside from his telling lack of a sedative during the procedure, there was little to be said against the clear improvement since the Guardsman's second meeting with Anna. The blood had long lost it's black, corrupted hue, and the outer bandages had already hardened in the red fluid, marking the return of the innate capability of the life fluid to close wounds once more.

'It's fine, Elsa,' Anna whispered, soothing a worried mind. But there was still something that didn't add up.

'If you didn't mean to kill anyone, why even show up the first time?'

_Cripes, she's going to want to know about why I took a knife to her._

Well, Varro reasoned, secrets had to die eventually.

'Because we got a ping on a Storm node that pointed to you.'

Her confounding glance was enough to elicit elaboration once more, although, providing the Storm Node for the eye to see, when one was locked in solid ice was, problematic to say the least, as he turned his eyes back to the Stormcaller.

'If you were so kind to thaw me out, I could show you what I meant.'

'Nice try, Varro.'

* * *

If he wasn't locked in the block of frozen liquid, Anna was sure that the shadow would have accompanied it's withering gaze at her words with a shrug.

_Worth a shot_, it seemed to mouth behind the helmet, before it turned it's gaze back to the one who had imprisoned it.

'I'm not exactly going anywhere,' it rambled, viewing the iron bars that surrounded it's cell with obvious contempt, 'and besides, as Egius said, testing the same path twice with different expectations is doomed to failure. At best, it's stupid. I've already tried to kill you once, and I'd like to think of myself as something other than stupid.'

'I say we just toss this lippy idiot out the window,' Kristoff muttered in Anna's ear, though it was loud enough to reach her sister's ears as well, 'thawing him is a death sentence. I'm not sure if you noticed it before, but there's at least a dozen blades on his person, and I'm pretty sure they're not great for your health.'

'Would a window give you some comfort?' the voice piped up again, the brows behind the lenses nearly raised in honest question. 'A word of caution, my friend. You should be careful what you wish for.'

A second later, and Kristoff was quickly learning the Guardsman's words were not empty threats. As if the Wyvern had awakened from the dead to torment them once again, the stone wall behind the Battlemaster disappeared in a furious ball of fire, taking the Battlemaster from their view, and sending the assembled group hurtling backward in a disorderly heap.

By the time they rose, the balance of power had shifted. Gravely so.

The steel bars separating that had once separated the two sides were gone, twisted and rent from their old posts. As was the ice that had previously encased the Guardsman.

And at it's back, another three cloaks filtered on the wind in the opening of the prison wall, as the three Guardsman marched forth toward their previously contained brother, pulling up blades and rifles before the ice could lock them to sheaths again.

The ice came up, but it was too late, as a round of hellfire aimed for Elsa's head was already on the way.

A second flash of light consumed the cold space, before darkness descended once again.

* * *

'Cease fire!'

Barely daring to open her eyes again, Elsa wasn't entirely sure how she was still breathing, having seen the bolt aimed for her skull already leave the strange bow. For a moment, she considered if her fear had leapt to her rescue again, but the sight beyond the glass quickly dispelled such a theory.

The Guardsman that had identified itself only as Hadrius Varro stood where he'd been chained by cold restraints, albeit, without his right arm. The carapace had been sheared away in the blast, and though he'd already been clothed in black, the explosive residue from the detonation was clearly plastered across his plate, from where it had spread after impacting the Guardsman's raised arm.

It was then that Elsa realized no blood was seeping from the horrific injury; only the cold clack and whirl of mechanical servos where flesh should have existed beneath the plate.

'Varro...'

'Wrong arm, Victus,' the strangely calm Guardsman muttered cooly, a grin all to evident beneath the carapace. That was, Elsa wondered, if anything of flesh and blood actually existed beneath. 'Told you a flesh graft would have been a waste, with you trigger happy idiots around.'

'What on earth...' To tell the truth, no one beyond the four cloaked warriors, and their two compatriots concealed behind stone turns, could even contemplate what they had just seen.

'Now listen; I think I owe you an explanation from the top, so how about we do things this way. Victus; take Girius and Quintus back to Firebase Abaddon, and get them checked out for combat again. I'll stay here, and try not to kill anyone else in the process. Clear?'

Though the tone of his instructions remained on the comms alone, there was a steel of command in his Battlemaster's voice that quickly killed any thought of opposition in Victus' mind. As much as he hated to admit it, Varro had come up with worse ideas than stranding himself behind enemy lines with less than all four limbs.

A moment later, the green acknowledgement light winked Victus' agreement over Varro's display, and the three Guardsmen, ever so careful to still leave them within an easy grasp, resheathed their weapons. As calmly as he could, Varro held out his remaining hand in a open, upward facing palm in a sign of both peace, and a prompt for such to be reciprocated.

Judging from the hesitation, absolution for his sins was still a long way off.

* * *

**Author's note: Thanks for the support guys; exams are over now, so I'll be able to devote a lot more time to this. If you've read this far, thanks again, and don't forget to leave a review: always appreciated.  
To PascalDragon; no worries mate: questions will be addressed in the next chapter; the Council's lore is up next.**


	7. The Past is in the Past

_Know your history, to shape the future  
__The Path of War, by Marcus Severus; Battlemaster of the Third Shadow Guard, until death on Agbar VII, during the Second Noma_d Offensive.

* * *

Indeed, it would take a lot for amends to be made, as the small troupe marched quietly down the hall. The black cloak took the center of the formation, surrounded by at least a dozen royal guards, as another similar number followed them in suit, keeping a good distance between the Battlemaster and the royal company.

Exchanging glances, Elsa was fairly certain Anna had little better grasp on the events that were quickly gripping the kingdom, and if the Guardsman they were escorting was well and truly sane. Varro's henchmen had long disappeared into the rising dawn with the other two Guardsmen they'd taken the previous evening, but it still didn't explain why Varro was willing to stay behind in potential harm's way.

The obvious answer was he was still keen on the alliance, but to go this far, he was either confident to the point of arrogant, or he was simply a plain idiot, or there was something else afoot.

The doors ahead slipped apart, and instinctively, the unit spread out across the vast space before them presented by the castle's Great Hall, though nerves were enough to keep the guards within easy reach of the one armed shape in their midst.

'Alright, let's take this from the beginning,' Varro mused softly, before he bent forward ever so slightly; the closest a Battlemaster ever came to a formal sign of respect to one other than his battle brothers, 'Hadrius Varro. Battlemaster of the Fifty Ninth Shadow Guard.'

'Queen Elsa of Arendelle,' the regal figure replied, before she gestured to the two figures at her side with a single hand. 'My sister, Princess Anna, and Arendelle's Ice Master, Kristoff.'

'Forgive me,' Varro immediately muttered, craning his neck to the ground once again at the slightest angle, 'I did not know previously I addressed a Queen.' Truth be told, the Guardsman was only buying time beneath the battle plate. Royalty was an ideology less often spoken of in Council circles, and even if such was the case, he had little idea what the stocky man at the Princess' side meant to the royal pair. On the other hand, they were little of what the Council had warned of inherited rule, but it was a fool who gave way to trust easily in such times.

'I never got used to being called such,' Elsa chuckled slightly, before she remembered who she was actually dealing with, and she straightened up, wiping the humor from her face. 'You never used your own title yourself, until now. Battlemaster...?'

'Commander, of the Fifty Ninth,' the Guardsman completed, before he leant his head to one side, considering her question. 'It's often unwise, I was taught, to reveal one's rank when in enemy hands, particularly when you're the head of a Guard Regiment. Not that it is much, anyway,' he finished, humbling the once prestigious rank. There wasn't much to be proud of after what he'd done in orbit.

'So what exactly brought you to Arendelle, Hadrius? Demons, is it?'

For once, the shadow hesitated, as his eyes drifted side to side, surveying the guards, and their drawn weapons that made any movement by the Battlemaster possibly fatal at the current time.

'I'd prefer Varro, if it would be of no consequence to you, your majesty. And, truth be told, I'd rather converse the details of my assignment in private, if you do not mind, Queen Elsa. '

He didn't get any further, before Henrik's blade was held loosely below his chin.

'Go near the Queen at your peril,' he whispered, before a calm voice stayed his blade.

'Leave it, Captain,' Elsa instructed carefully, before she analysed the Guardsman once again, and was left silently cursing the all concealing armor that encased the shadow. Quite frankly, she had no idea if he was awaiting her answer with honest eyes, or if his teeth were already barring into a wolf's grin.

'If it puts you at ease, I will relieve myself of my wargear. On my honour.'

There was a suitable flinch in the words met Anna's ears, although why such was the case was beyond the Queen, having been absent at the moment Anna had begun her pursuit. Besides, she told herself, the Guardsman was already without an arm, and at worst, her sheer panic and fear had been enough to keep them alive before. In fact, she recalled, half the time, the ice had acted on it's own accord in their defense.

* * *

As it turned out, disarming the Guardsman was not the short matter anyone, save for perhaps Varro himself, had anticipated. Even though he was working with only one hand, the Guardsman certainly knew his way around his kit, although the sheer volume was daunting by the time he'd finished. A pack full of cylinders, which he stressed required no excessive movement, particularly out of curiosity; two long bandoliers of blades, each identical to the one that had nearly turned Kristoff into one of the paintings on the walls; a second belt accompanied by a sheath carrying four more, significantly larger blades; another pair of throwing blades that had once sat in his ankles; at least a half dozen hollowed pins that had been held in the Guardsman's knuckles; the list went on. And of course, there were the three cylindrical rifles built around metallic, box like designs, each of a varying calibre. One was perhaps a sword's length, but the other two were short, barely longer than a dagger.

All in all, by the time he'd finished, Elsa was fairly certain that there was enough steel on the table to equip another army for war.

It was only then that she caught the Guardsman's inquisitive glance, as he twisted a dial on the largest tube, and he hefted a small fraction of the strange weapon up.

'With your permission,' he muttered, as he clipped the small appendage to his side. Immediately, the hiss of steel on leather rippled off the walls. 'It's no weapon,' he seemingly chuckled, as he rounded on the overly protective guards, 'Unless you were to clonk it against a skull.'

'Let it pass,' Elsa instructed carefully. Even so, the slightest wisps of snow began to twirl at her fingertips. If something happened, she willed, she'd be ready.

'Henrik, take your men outside.' As the shadow finished up, he never saw the minute glance pass between the royal party, and the captain of the guard. There were a number of concealed peak holes that lined the hall; large enough to admit a line of sight to the Queen, but small enough to prevent a would-be assassin from using it to fire a projectile at a monarch. They'd been put in place long before the incident that culminated in Anna's memory loss, to give the King and Queen some confidence that their daughters were being watched over, all the while preserving their space. When she'd first discovered the compartments, she'd first treated such espionage with disdain, but now at least, they had found a use once more; enough to provide a warning to the guards outside the doors, should an attempt on the monarch occur during a private meeting.

On the other hand, Varro simply did not care. It had been logical after all to assume the guard would never allow their gazes to leave the room, and, after reviewing his helmet's footage whilst he disarmed himself, the Battlemaster had found reward in a century of surviving by observation, isolating the use of the peep holes.

However, while they admitted a line of sight, they were still far enough to prevent any great deals of conversation from reaching observers; the exact effect the Battlemaster had wished for.

He had little reason to trust the fact Foresh had not already moved infiltrators inside the walls, and until he could actually trigger the Storm Node for another pulse, the short serrated blade that remained concealed in his remaining elbow would stay there.

Besides, it seemed to be enough to put the monarch at ease, alongside the other two members of the royal party he had already confirmed to be free of outside control, after he finally recognized them from Plinus' mission feed, upon the first contact between the Fifty Ninth, and the humans of Earth.

Quietly, the door at his back closed, leaving the black cloak with the royal kin of Arendelle.

* * *

If Varro was indeed insane, Kristoff mused, as the Battlemaster continued his tale, his mind had done a truly magnificent job of generating a universe beyond the sky; some ideas so absurd, they encited belief. From the Council's humble founding between the Krai, Geus and Terinii, after their short but self destructive First War of Unification upon the lush world they would later name Terra in acknowledgement of their combined efforts, regardless of varying species; to the newly assembled Council's first marches on the stars in collective unity and expansion. Varro's continued tale of a coalition bound by common cause and loyalty, rather than coin, brought back somewhat entertaining memories of the Duke of Wessleton, as he'd been carted back off to his city with his coffers empty. Indeed, it seemed quite a mad proposal at first; the Council's decision to remove currency from the equation, but truth be told, after watching how far one would go for a material piece of metal, Elsa had to admit there was some merit behind the idea, if one could only just convince others to act out of duty rather than for the next reward. Even so, other issues carried greater precedence than a philosophical debate on the currency system.

A brief enquiry on the Guardsman's strange capability to speak the language of present company quickly revealed the Battlemaster to not be as learned as they once believed, rather, it was simply the work of an advanced translation software. Beneath the helm, Varro simply continued to speak the tongue of the Titulian. Even so, Anna still couldn't quite come to terms with the fluency of the Guardsman's capability for common speech.

'Wouldn't you need to have viewed the word before you could speak it?'

'Not necessarily,' Varro quickly answered, noticing the slight scowl on Elsa's face at the aversion from the key details. Time was of the essence after all. 'Warden's A.I. has translated enough languages, and your one's based off the tongue of the Nomads: fairly common dialect left on the worlds they once inhabited.'

'Nomads?' Elsa enquired, sensing there was greater gravity behind the slip of Varro's speech than met they eye, 'who were they?'

'As far as we know,' the Battlemaster admitted, 'they were the first form of sentient life, or at least as far back as we can identify; they stretched across the galaxy, but they weren't into a great deal of conservation: policy for the Nomads was to take over a planet, wipe out the existing populace and then colonize the place. Then, when everything was depleted of course, though, it seems they left a lot over the years; the earliest space faring species usually attributed such to the remains of Nomad technology, and most languages and literature are already based around the texts found in their ruins. As a result,' he finished quickly, curbing any additional thoughts on the forerunners of life, or rather, the harbingers of death, from the party's minds, 'translation is sometimes easier than expected; both ways.' With a demon incursion on their heads, he reasoned, the last thing they needed to know was the furious and unrelenting return of the machiavellian-minded creatures that continued to pour over the Front every day, held back only by the blood of heroes and shadows. 'You might be able to read a bit of Antiqus if you've already got a grasp on the closest dialects.'

'That thing up North,' Anna broke in, 'it had something that looked like latin painted across it; Warden, or something like that?'

'Oh, a scholar,' Varro noted sincerely, slightly impressed someone had managed not only found the Warden's titanic wreck, but even managed to translate part of it's name without any translation softwares for the language of the Council. 'I guess she's the learned one?' He mused, eyeing the Queen with a sidelong glance.

'First time anyone said that,' Anna conceded sheepishly. It wasn't a secret there was a grave imbalance between the two sisters' readiness to accept their education in their youths, and it didn't take a professor to determine which one had fared better as a result of their varying approaches.

As for the matter of the eerie mechanical nature of the arm, the Battlemaster was fairly brief over such, citing it was purely an augmentic, after the organic appendage had been lost in heavy fighting barely twenty years ago, to be replaced by a mechanical variant that was somehow still bound to his nervous system, given the fact he'd been able to control the prosthetic to the greatest extent, down to the twitch of a finger. And then came the matter of the ambush over what they'd once thought to be a shooting star; a fleet action between the Fifty Ninth's Retributor Fleet; that saw the Warden of Terra, and it's two escortslost to the void, along with the lives of over five hundred Guardsman, as they'd been torn into the vacuum.

When he finally reached the point of the tale at which the present company was involved though, the Battlemaster abruptly produced the small device that had originated from his rifle's scope, and presented it for the eye to see. Although they were still uneasy with so many of the Guard's devices seemingly rigged for an uncontrolled blaze of fire and death, it was Anna who finally broke the impasse, her impulsive curiosity getting the better of her, as always.

'What is that?' she asked innocently, though her words were jolted and irregular, as she tried to contend with the use of crutches in getting closer for a better look.

'This,' Varro answered quietly, 'is the reason for our first, rather disastrous first meeting, might I add. It's a Storm Node; tailored to identify entities of the Storm, or the other realm, where demons reside, and where we all eventually head for after death.'

As he said the words, he turned the small box about, so that the trio could witness the display screen that took up the better part of the node's rear side. There was little of note, as the display showed no real change; the line remaining still as it's sights were locked upon the Battlemaster.

'As you see,' he quickly explained, 'it's not the most sensitive thing about; the position of the line wouldn't change if you were to take an axe to the case. You could aim it at anyone, and not get a ping.'

Gently, at least, far more so than Girius' definition, he handed the device to Anna for her to survey. Despite it's metallic appearance, the device was deceptively light in weight, as she turned it over in her hands, unreactive to every degree. And then, as it was passed on to Kristoff to inspect and it's forward scope passed by the Queen, everything changed.

The line on the display came to life, shaking like a bull rattling it's cage in unmet fury, whilst the machine itself vibrated back and forth in alarm. Completely unprepared for the movement in an inanimate object, both Anna and Kristoff let the case fall from their grips, and quickly hit the ground as they tumbled backward. Well, rather, Kristoff did, as a pair of arms arrested Anna's fall, before she could reopen the wound.

'Thanks, sis,' Anna managed through grit teeth, the dulled pain in her side returning once again, although it was still infinitely preferable to the hell she'd faced before her would be killer had returned.

'Sorry, Kristoff,' Elsa quickly apologized, before a quick wave signaled his continued good health. After all, he reasoned with a grin; he'd lived through a hard impact with a cliff face, and a two hundred foot drop already. Ruefully, he started to scramble up, to find a black gauntlet opened in offer.

'No thanks,' he said, as carefully as possible to avoid antagonising the Guardsman, before he finally propelled himself back up right. Only shrugging at his refusal, Varro simply leant further down, his outstretched hand seizing the fallen Storm node, before he retracted himself, back up into a standing position.

'The node's tailored to activate like that only when it detects a Storm signature,' he continued, 'that is; demons, and on a rare occasion, Stormcaller. So you can see why we may have...overreacted when we first got a ping on you.'

'What's a Stormcaller?' Elsa wondered, although, she already had a bad feeling it somehow addressed herself.

'Er, you.' Varro put simply. 'Rare entities with the ability to manipulate the Storm's power to their own uses, though how, is beyond me.'

'And you knew about this?' Anna demanded, glancing back at her sister, 'you knew she could have been one and you still tried to kill her?'

'I've lived one hundred and thirty nine years, Princess,' a cold voice replied. 'and I've spent the better part of those years fighting beside the Fifty Ninth, across the stars. And across a hundred battlefields, and Great Father knows how many worlds, I've only met two such beings over my time. You, and one other.'

'Who was the other?'

'Another Guardsman; Corvus Aurelius. Met him on Relius III probably fifty years ago with the Twenty Third. Anyway, my point, Anna, is that as far as we've discovered, there is probably only one Stormcaller in the Universe for every thousand planets out there. And it's no secret demons possess flesh to suit their purposes, so I hope you understand why we assumed that you were not the one in a trillion chance.'

That was enough to steer the conversation from dangerous waters, and Elsa was left in fair confusion at why, of all the people, or things, in the universe, was she chosen for the gift, or curse.

'So what happens now?'

'Foresh will come; he's too proud to watch us burn from orbit. He will come, and he will personally take a torch to everything on this world. And the first ones he'll come for will be us. Running won't save Arendelle, my Queen; not from the wrath of demons. I can only offer the chance to stand together, or die alone.'

Before a reply could form in Elsa's mouth though, the audio from the black cloak strangely died into the wind. Even the slightest breath faded away, and yet, the shadow continued to converse silently, it's head cocked slightly to the side as it continued in silent speech.

When it's voice finally returned, it wasn't alone.

'Hold up Victus,' he muttered, I'm going to place you on projection. Standby.'

A few seconds later, and the jaws of all those watching hit the floor, as a small, miniature figure, similar to the Battlemaster in so many ways, save the sigil it bore on it's chest, and the fact it was partly transparent like a moving piece of glass, flittered from the side of the Battlemaster's head, to stand in open space. If it noticed the fact it was standing in the air, it gave no indication of surprise, as it surveyed the trio presented before it's eyes.

'Victus; Queen Elsa, Princess Anna, and Ice Master Kristoff.'

'Is that a title?'

'Show some respect, Agus,' Varro muttered, as he rolled his eyes to the heavens. 'Elsa, Anna, Kristoff; Field Master Agus Victus, of the Fifty Ninth.'

The small hologram cited it's respect in a similar fashion to it's Battlemaster, giving the slightest of bows in acknowledgement, before it turned ever so slightly, so as to address Varro to a greater degree than the trio of humans.

'I really hate to intrude on the meeting, but we have a real problem Varro; we need you back at Abaddon right now. Argonius is already en route with an Omen for extraction.'

'Care to tell us what the issue is?' Varro prompted, stifling his Field Master's tightlipped protocols in data classification.

'Find a window that looks North, and you'll know what I mean. Foresh is on the move.'

* * *

Thankfully, in the early hours of the morning, with most still in shock at the Wyvern's assault the previous evening, none were present to witness the Queen, her sister and husband, alongside one of the rather ominous black cloaked warriors, burst out onto the balcony that stood vigil over the courtyard.

Beyond the mountain range in the distance though, there was truly a both amazing and terrifying display of astronomy.

The sky had awakened. Hundreds of streaking stars hurtled down in the distance, burning so brightly they shone through the dense clouds that concealed the range's greatest peaks. Each one burned against the sky with a vengeance, illuminating a monstrous silhouette concealed in cloud and shadow; a titanic shape that dwarfed the North mountain itself, as it was illuminated through distortive layers of cloud, only serving to provide a fraction of it's image upon the few who dared to watch the fiery display of the Soul Reaper's descent.

There was no denying the threat now, for landfall had begun.


	8. Omens of the Apocalypse

_For every action, there is a reaction  
__Hestus Iroqulis, Councilor, commenting on the Nomad counter offensive_

* * *

It was a strained atmosphere to say the least, as Elsa tried to comprehend the unending reports she'd had brought to her desk over the past hours, trying to find something that could be even spun as good news.

'Any luck?' Anna asked, looking up from behind the most recent paper she'd been analysing, to little effect. While she had always been more than happy to help her sister with the Kingdom, paperwork certainly was one of the few exceptions to that policy. Quite frankly, she could have been happier out of the walls with Kristoff, who was currently trying to consolidate border forces away from positions already deemed indefensible, or to spread the evacuation orders to outlying hamlets and whatnot to head for the city. Unfortunately, the task had also deprived Arendelle of the bulk of it's manpower, leaving Anna with little alternative but to help her sister in parchments 'analysts' were bringing to them in no specific order. Though he'd already apologized for the incident, it didn't do Elsa much good that Varro, or more specifically, a Guardsman he'd named Tarus, had placed the entirety of Arendelle's scouts and trained military analysts in the infirmary.

'Nothing good,' Elsa sighed in frustration, as she continued to rifle through stacks less often brought to her attention. It was no secret Arendelle was a center of trade in the Northern hemisphere, but as a result, it had never burdened the necessity to uphold a significant military. Their ships were often more than enough, but with recent events, Elsa was beginning to regret vetoing the notion put forth by Arendelle's Master of the Guard to introduce a one year conscription policy in the city's youth, to attempt to bolster a somewhat fleeting defense. True, at the time, Birgir was out of his mind: tensions with the South were already sky high after the incident with Hans, and Elsa had felt doubling Arendelle's military force, new recruits or not, was a sure signal to send them all plummeting into the chaos of war.

Now though, with a war they could not escape on the horizon, she wouldn't have minded having at least some people outside the Royal Guard who could swing a sword without getting cut down into piecemeal after the first stroke.

It didn't help with the troop reports that they were searching through informing them that Arendelle's military was in a state that hardly looked mobilized for a conflict.

Though at a glance, Arendelle supposedly had five hundred men at arms; each a guard of the royal court, in truth, only half of it was on station at any one time, during peacetime; the usual declaration of war giving ample time for both sides to mobilize military forces to full strength. However, coupled with the fact that those who weren't on leave had been reduced by sixty eight coffins, and nearly two other full companies in the infirmary, thanks to both the Guard and the Wyvern's inferno, that five hundred had dropped to a miserable standing force of one hundred.

Thankfully, updated reports were slowly filtering in of increasing numbers, as men were recalled from their leave. Unfortunately, time also brought on disturbing new developments. Ranging from strange border sightings as far back as two weeks ago, in most cases dismissed as an abnormal bear or wolf, Elsa was beginning to find a pattern in the reports that had she been unaware of the existence of demons, she could have easily found a hundred other explanations.

But if one was aware that something with access to the supernatural was present, and with the hints provided by the departed Battlemaster on common harbingers of a demon incursion, the answers were falling into place.

'Wait,' she muttered, pulling Anna's eyes away from the current piece of loathed paper, 'have you got anything else on the areas around the Eagle's perch?'

There was a moment of scrambled haste, as strew papers were hurriedly collected back together. There was a suitably marked difference between the two sisters' organisation of their notes; one collected and stacked neatly, whilst the other greatly resembled the mess left behind had a bomb just been set off at the center of the room, and Elsa could not hide a small chuckle as her sister pried through discarded sheets.

'Hey, I told you paperwork wasn't my strongest suit,' she said in mock frustration, before a hand finally snatched the sought document, 'yeah, four men went missing about a week ago in the woods around Brevrik, but that's it. Besides, they found them a day later.'

'What happened?' Elsa asked, slanting her head instinctively to read the report over her sister's shoulder, but it was quickly passed to her for her own eyes to scan, though Anna's own memory practically summarized the sheet.

'Wolves, they reckon. They came back pretty badly mauled, but no life-threatening injuries. Anyway, what exactly is this about, Elsa?'

'Just looking at all the strange activity over the past weeks that might have been dismissed at the time, but if you look at it, it's all in the same areas in the North; Brevrik, Halsund: someone even reported seeing a flying monster off the mountain pass four days ago.'

Even though there was no window actually permitting a view on the village below, Anna's head was drawn, more by reflex than thought, in it's approximate direction. Even though the Guard had disposed of the remaining Wyvern by both heavy demolitions and immolation on their way out, such would remain the site of a costly battle in people's minds for a long time.

'That thing?' she wondered aloud, but Elsa's only reply was a shrug.

'Doesn't exactly say,' she replied, 'but still, it's everything he warned us of; people getting attacked in broad daylight by nocturnal animals...damnit! I should have seen it!'

'Elsa,' Anna tried to direct such advice in a soothing voice, but such was significantly difficult when one was encumbered by the burden of crutches, particularly when the one had only picked them up hours past. 'No one could have seen this. You did everything you could have, in fact, you did more than any other would have in your situation. You're not forgetting you sent Jens and his squad out there are you?'

Not for the first time, Elsa breathed a silent thanks to whatever god watched over them for returning her sister to her; for returning the one who was always there where no other was, keeping her sane in the most chaotic of times. She could still remember with some fondness at how her sister had leapt at Birgir like a lion when he'd questioned the viability of the Queen's decision to send a detachment of men to the region, on what he'd labeled 'insubstantial' rumors to warrant such a reaction.

'Thanks, Anna,' she whispered, barely audibly, but it was enough to pass to her sister's ears. 'It's just, they're my people. Their lives are...'

'We're not dead yet, Elsa,' Anna interrupted, placing a comforting hand on Elsa's shoulder, 'and you'll see us through this. I know you can.'

Little did she know how such a simple idea could be tested so grievously in the hours to come.

* * *

'I don't know how many times I've told you,' the irate voice mused from his side, 'but you weren't issued with a new limb to lose it again.'

Varro simply opted to remain silent as Victus mounted the new augmentic to the damaged stump old mutilated flesh, having already trimmed away the remnants of the old prosthetic. Truth be told, the organic variant had held plenty of history the Battlemaster would rather forget rather than recall. In fact, despite the vague details he had provided with the royals of Arendelle, the limb had been missing for almost one hundred and ten years; well over the twenty year mark he'd provided. Somehow, it seemed that losing the limb in combat against the feral Xenos was a preferable history to the fumble with a grenade in his first firefight that had promptly removed the appendage from his shoulder.

'It's handier than you might think, Victus.'

'And you'd know all about missing hands, wouldn't you? Hang on; this might hurt a bit.'

For the fifth time since he'd lost the original limb, and the uncounted time since he actually endured the procedure of replacing lost items with metal, Varro could only feel an insurmountable pulse of agony surge through his arm, as the new replacement drilled into pale flesh and bone concealed beneath the carapace, linking itself painfully into the Guardsman's nervous system. Not for the first time, Varro's teeth drew blood from the flesh they dug into instinctively beneath the helm, as the appendage completed it's final bonding stages. A moment later, and the feeling of the old limb was returned.

'Well,' he panted, trying to flex the new limb as he muttered the words, 'tell me some good news.'

'Foresh made landfall within the estimated region,' Victus quickly reported, his eyes darting back and forth as he reviewed the data on a holopad, 'only two kilometers from the epicenter of the area, in fact. Our forces could be on station within the hour.'

'Four hundred in an assault on twenty thousand; victory is certain, eh?'

'I never said that it would be tactically wise.'

Varro could only let a sardonic grin split his face, as he picked himself off the table, and landed upon the two legs that still marked him as a descendent of the old enemy. Like almost all intelligent life that formed the council's many species, his own ancestors were once nothing but degenerates and malformed Nomads with two legs, rather than the standard four. Most had been left behind in the Nomads' continued progress across the stars, or marooned, leaving them to die or descend into barbarism. The resulting fracture between each band of outcasts on each world had left the differing species to evolve to their own environments, creating the diverse council the Guardsman knew in the present. In an odd way, he reflected, they were indeed fighting side by side with their, albeit extremely distant, brethren.

Gesturing as best he could with his recently replaced limb for Victus to follow his stride, he resumed the interrogation of recent data.

'How many formations do we have combat ready?'

'I've reordered the most able survivors into eight combat companies, Varro.' Victus replied, passing the pad for his Battlemaster to review. 'Fifty men each; the rest, I'm reorganizing as our reserves and Firebase defense group.'

It didn't take long for a response; with over a hundred years to know one another, Varro had grown accustomed to easily identifying each unit's strengths and shortcomings, regardless of combat losses.

'Alright, give all companies, except the new fifth and eighth, the green light to engage. Guerilla tactics only; I want no heavy contact yet. Not until we can guarantee some reinforcements.'

'The vanguards could be in place by tonight, Hadrius.'

'Do it.' At best, he estimated, they'd have two weeks. Foresh had already demonstrated an uncanny knack for tactics, and lacked the usual approach of treating lives cheaply. Much like the Guard, they were only spent when there was a purpose. Any sooner, and the demon's landing zone would not be fortified to a sufficient extent, opening the possibility for the Guard to drive into the heart of his forces. Any later, and too many would have been mustered against the demons.

Coupled with the hallmark guerrilla strikes of the Guard, the demons were only likely to launch their offensive after the fifteenth day of their landfall. Small scale offensives before then were certain, but nothing would be able to match the tide of flesh that would engulf the mountains when Foresh unleashed the entirety of the Soul Reaper's forces.

With only three hundred or so Guardsmen on the attack, a delaying action was all that could be accomplished, but if such was the case, the enemy would eventually reach the Firebase; something that was not a part of Varro's plan. 'The fifth and eighth can start packing up; we're too exposed out here anyway.'

'You know the boys won't like that; just settled in after all.'

'They won't be able to enjoy the scenic vista of the Warden's wreck if they're dead,' Varro mused, nearly cheerfully, 'there's a small alcove in the valley the city is situated in, right there.' A cold metallic finger stabbed at the holographic display that filled the command room of the Behemoth-turned-Firebase in affirmation of the Battlemaster's instruction. 'Have the fifth scope the place, and then displace the Behemoth. Wheels up by twenty hundred hours. That said; get me Plinus. I need...'

'Someone called?' Varro didn't even bother trying to fathom how the Hunter had materialized this time. While all members of the Shadow Guard were adept in stealth, Plinus could be considered a ghost by their standards, if one excluded the late Master of Shadows attached to the Fifty Ninth although, Segorius had already met his end in the void, high above Arendelle, amid the ambush of the Soul Reaper.

On the other hand, that left Plinus viable for the promotion he'd always deserved for his skill. After a century of getting ambushed in his own secure quarters by the lead Hunter of the Fifty Ninth, Varro had given up trying to learn the Guardsman's methods of unseen movement long ago. After all, some things could not be matched.

'I need someone to run point defense on Glacier.'

'Glacier? Is someone forgetting that the witch nearly killed us?'

'Times change, Plinus,' Varro replied, turning his eyes back to the holodisplay, 'and in such times, the Storm may hold the answer, as does it offer our end. Now get moving; light kit only, and get in place within the hour. He's already lost a Wyvern. Foresh won't sit idle while the Guard continues to draw breath.'

The Hunter only replied with a silent tap of a closed fist to his heart in acknowledgement, before he melted away once more into shadow, and in that moment, for the first time since they'd made their unwanted landing, Varro could rest easy.

* * *

For the hundredth time, Theodore could not suppress his loathing for sentry duty, as he completed another circuit around his post at the mouth of the bridge to the castle.

Patrolling in the dark was already bad. Patrolling in the dark, in probably two or three feet of snow, was close to intolerable.

Not that he blamed the Queen, this time at least, but it was easy to mentally link the ideas of winter and Arendelle's current monarch as one. Regardless, there wasn't much he could do, aside from to pull the cloak tighter to his body, and pray for the dawn to hasten its arrival.

Footsteps on the wind killed his grumbling.

Immediately, Theodore came to attention, his sword hand falling to the undrawn weapon's hilt, whilst the other hefted his only source of illumination in the dark, as he tried to ascertain who was approaching at this hour. Even with the Queen's new open gates policy, few attempted to make use of the privilege once the sun went down.

'Who goes there?

He could begin to make out three silhouettes amid the storm, and, his nerves already on end with nearly getting torched alive by a monster from a nightmare, the sword nearly departed it's sheath, had a familiar voice not arrested the movement.

'Enok? That you?' Finn's voice hollered in the wind, even as he placed a restraining hand on Theodore's shoulder.

'Sure is,' a reply faintly returned, even though it's hoarse tone certainly beckoned it to be a shout rather than a whisper. As the silhouettes continued to progress, Theodore allowed himself a breath, as four men, rather than the three he's spotted earlier, stepped into his sight. Though they certainly weren't too well off, judging by their torn clothes, they were not the demons he'd been fearing moments ago, and he allowed his hand to stray from the cold hilt. Besides, his partner seemed to know them well enough.

'What are you doing down in Arendelle, Enok?' Finn enquired, hardly the formal tone between a Royal Guard and a stranger at the gates, 'I thought you'd still be up in Brevrik.'

'Bad times,' the mountain man replied vaguely, 'anywhere we could stay the night? Inn's closed.'

'Aye,' the Guard noted, 'damaged in the attack. You missed quite the show earlier, but the Queen's opened up the Castle's West wing to anyone who needs it for the evening. Speaking of which; how's the leg?'

'Not too good,' Enok replied sincerely, 'you don't tend to stay the same after getting dragged off by a pack of wolves.'

The man's words were so honest, so dissimilar to the manner of a murderer about to perform his art, that Theodore never saw the flash of steel leave Enok's sleeve, until the cold steel was plunged into his throat. By that time, of course, it was already too late to call for aid.

As he lay in the snow, clawing at his opened neck soundlessly amid the blizzard, watching the four assailants deliver a similar fate the other guardsman of Arendelle,Theodore had just enough time to wonder how a man could have gold lining the pupils of his eyes, before the darkness of the end consumed his sight.

* * *

Her steps was far from graceful as she hobbled along as best she could with on wooden appendages, making probably more noise in curses and clutter than the blizzard that battered the castle walls outside.

Even if he'd returned to deliver the antidote for the earlier injury, Anna swore that once she was back on her feet for good, the Guardsman was dead. Not for the inconvenience of the crutches, but rather for effectively placing her on lock down in the Castle again.

The paperwork wouldn't have been so bad if Kristoff had been dragged into it as well, she thought, briefly chuckling at the prospect of how common suffering somehow made menial tasks bearable for those already entrusted with the unwanted duty. But instead, he'd managed to wriggle out of it, on the occasion he could still move unburdened without a five inch hole in his side, and was probably halfway across the kingdom by now.

By now though, he was probably out of carrots.

That prospect, particularly that of the irate reindeer going more than another ten meters without the promise of his lifelong snack, was enough to send her into stiches. Literally, as she quickly learnt to regret laughter with the incision in her hip.

Her evening walk was, like most nights, fairly uneventful. Few servants were still up at such an hour, but such only meant the hassle of royalty was gladly reduced, to the point at which a peaceful stroll was possible, if only to admire the view winter had to offer.

Of course, the ongoing storm outside made such difficult, but like all of winter, it too offered hidden beauty; the eccentric patterns of crystals in the air like a moving tapestry of art, only matched by the auroras she'd grown to love as a child, long before that fateful night a wedge of fear had been driven between the two sisters, years ago.

She rounded the last corner, to retire to her room, when a shadow flickered out of the corner of her eye.

Curiosity getting once again ahead of common sense, particularly after a bad string of incidents with shadows on her part, Anna stumbled along the corridor, to reach the intersection that led to her sister's quarters.

Aside from the two guards who flanked the double doors of the Queen's new quarters, having converted the old bedroom that had marked her isolation from society for the better part of her life, for the sake of sparing painful memories, into a private office, there were four other figures there; each fairly snow beaten from weathering the storm, and their nearly spectral like appearance gave some similarity to her first encounter with Kristoff, when he'd first stumbled into the trading post from a rather hectic trip along the slopes of the North Mountain.

Anna was on the verge of dismissing the four as new servants, probably sent up by Kai to check on the Queen after several incursions, when she saw the slightest flicker of steel amid one man's hands. And after spending the better part of her life surrounded by them, Anna knew full well it was not the uniform of Arendelle's guards to include a scarlet red sash across their collars. In fact, in the dark...

She spotted the thin lines cut across the mens' necks, as the reddened fabric continued to grow, and in that moment, she threw caution into the winds, her sister's safety paramount.

'Elsa!' she screamed at the top of her voice, 'Watch out...'

She didn't get any further before a blade was headed her way. Thankfully, the would be assassins were suitably lacking in an area of combat Varro had proven to be his forte, and the knife, unbalanced for throwing as it was, skidded through the air, before it hammered itself into the wall beside the Princess.

It was then that she saw her attacker's eyes were rimmed with unnatural gold, even as they began to break into a full on sprint, pelting forward with short blades drawn back to hack her apart where she stood.

If she somehow survived this, Anna promised herself, as she grimly noted the crutches still placed beneath her arms, Girius was definitely dead.

* * *

Elsa was out of the bed as soon as Anna's shout hit her ears. Truth be told, she had barely dared to sleep over the past days. Two successive intrusions into one's home, past row upon row of dedicated guards, tended to do such to a person.

She threw the doors aside, only to nearly tumble back inside the room in shock.

While the Shadow Guardsman had, although alien, managed to somehow connect their universal appearance to that of a human's, perhaps due to the frustrating illusion of the all concealing plate they wore, the creature that had lurked beyond the wooden frame heralded the complete opposite; a human that had ceased to be.

It's eyes bearing the golden tinge of a wolf's, the man well and truly appeared to be such a beast, as it's jaws were pulled back, into a long snout like design that served to display the row upon row of fangs that had replaced teeth. The tongue beneath such was also mutilated by sorcery l; now forked into that of a snake's.

And of course, there was the very immediate problem of the short dagger enclosed in the man's boney grip.

The second she had opened the door, the blade was already on the way, hurtling down for her neck, and it was only by the slightest of margins that she managed to pull up thin wall of ice, though, unaccounting for the multiplied force of the being, the blade simply punched through the wall up until the hilt, halting just before her eyes.

'Elsa!'

Barely daring to look, the Queen's eyes were pulled from the insane man before her, to see three others of his kin, each bearing different mutilations to flesh and bone, bounding down the hallway for her sister. In that moment, self caution evaporated.

Unleashing a bout of rage that propelled the wall of ice, and the assailant behind it, into the opposing wall, Elsa dashed from the doorway, only for the three sets of eyes to turn on her. Then, as one, they began an advance.

A long corridor of spiked ice erupting for the ground held little effect, as the men simply sidestepped the impediment, unfaltering as they advanced singlemindedly toward her.

Abandoning the already tried and failed method of stopping an opponent, Elsa let a second bolt fly from her fingertips, sending a blade flying from one man's grasp. Then, a furious phalanx of long crystals lept up at a single raised palm, impaling the lead man where he stood. Elsa held little qualms over excessive force; whatever these things were, they had long passed their time as humans, and without it, both Anna and Elsa would be joining their parents in the very near future.

The beasts quickly lived up to her abnormal perception, as a normal man would have been fairly unable to leap a six foot obstruction of pointed ends at the blink of an eye.

But she was not facing normal men, and already, the two survivors were throwing themselves over the barricade in zealous fury. Even the disarmed one, with his bare fists, hurled himself at the Queen, uncaring for his life. Or perhaps that was because he still felt survival was likely, as Elsa noted the abnormal claws that replaced his hands.

The back handed strike of one man sent her to the ground, before she instinctively rolled aside, narrowly avoiding a blade being hammered into her heart. Then, her fear and anger unbound by the assault, each of the three remaining assassins were blown back in a terrific display of fury. Bolts of frozen material struck weapons from hands, or even locked limbs to the ground, arresting the rampage of the would be assassins. A last blast of ice even sent one assassin flying over her head, and a quick turn to face him locked the mutant to the wall in a prison of ice.

'Elsa!'

'I'm fine Anna,' Elsa replied, rounding back to face her sister, when she realized too late that her sister's shout had been a warning, as two eyes filled her sight. She had not expected a creature to be able to endure biting it's own frozen arm off at the elbow to escape a deadly trap, and she certainly had not counted on the man's missing arm to have been replaced in seconds by a growing blade of bone.

Placing it's remaining hand on her shoulder, the creature pulled her into the blade, until it punched through her back, encased in red blood.

As the ice around her melted, and the sharpened edge was pulled out to admit a torrent of blood, Elsa managed to glimpse one last look upon her sister, willing her to run, before she saw a light at the end of the hall.

_Time's up_.

* * *

Thankfully for Elsa, the bolt was hardly her trip to heaven, as it hurtled through the air, and punched into her killer, sending it sprawling back in a shower of blood. That was before a half dozen more bolts delivered a similar effect on the thrashing monster, before the last finally hit it's chest, and removed it's cold heart.

Unfortunately, by that time, the surviving two assailants had pulled themselves from their prisons, only to be faced by their own nightmare; a Hunter of the Council.

Still cursing the structure of the castle for denying him an opportunity to simply hit the demons from afar, without having to step foot inside, and thereby costing valuable time in defending the asset, Plinus was nonetheless glad for another chance to prove his existing title as Blademaster of the Fifty Ninth, as he gently locked the rifle to his back once again, despite it's unexhausted magazine, and promptly pulled two short swords from their hilts.

Though the Guard had already proven themselves, in a non lethal escape against overwhelming numbers, it was no secret amongst the council that their true art was in killing, without leaving a single opponent to fight another day.

Though the bone swords hammered at him from two different directions, Plinus refused to falter, each of his hands seemingly possessing a mind of it's own as they hurtled back and forth, over one another, and steadily driving the pair back.

A brutal kick, combined with the powered servos laced in the carapace's circuits to multiply any force, drove one man's knee backwards, sending the demon straight to the ground. In that moment, Plinus hit the standing survivor with the force of a hurricane. As his right blade locked with the unnatural sword that composed the man's right arm, it's partner pinned itself into the blade hand's elbow, before the hunter stepped onto the demon's right, beyond the angle for retaliation. Then, with callous disregard for the fact he was ending a life, the hunter plunged his right hand, still armed with the serrated edge, across the back of the demon's neck, cutting the spinal cord in one fluid motion, and dropping the possessed man into a pile of disordered limbs. Without even looking in his foe's direction, the Hunter instinctively stepped over the sword he knew was hurtling for his feet in a deadly sweep, before he knelt down and pinned a blade into the first demon's heart, killing the possession.

Only pausing to deliver a similar fate to the already immobilized assassin, Plinus' stride accelerated to a run, as he reached the Queen's side, and a frantic Anna, who had since managed to bypass the melted barricades amidst the brief melee.

'Damnit, Steadfast, come in,' he cursed, as he unclipped a small pouch beneath his arm, 'Glacier is down: I need a medical extract right now!'

'Elsa?' Anna screamed, cradling her limp sister in her arms, 'Elsa! Talk to me, please!'

'Anna, put her down!' Plinus instructed harshly, before he leant down to try and ascertain what had just befallen the Queen. With a gaping hole just off the center of her chest, and the amount of blood she was hacking up, it didn't take long to realize a lung had been punctured.

'Plinus, what's happening down there?'

'Lung puncture, possible artery severed,' Plinus replied down the comm line, 'I need an Omen right now, otherwise she's going to bleed out, or drown; I can't treat this out here.'

'Omen is on route,' Victus replied, calm as a machine, 'fifteen minutes. Get her to an LZ fast, and close the wound.'

'On it,' the Guardsman hissed, finally freeing a bottle of sealant from the small field kit. 'Alright, Elsa, this is probably going to hurt, a lot, but it just might save your life.'

Before protest could be made, the Hunter pinned the small nozzle of a familiar tube into the wound, and pulled the release.

What followed could have only been described as unimaginable agony, as the organic foam seeped into her abdomen, rapidly expanding within the open space, until the compromised lung was rudimentary enclosed on both ends by a layer of the nano-machine filled gel. If only there were something for the pain.

Guardsmen were not well renown for their bedside manner.

Unfortunately, Elsa's cry also had the adverse effect of producing a suitably negative image in Henrik's mind, when he and a detachment of guards finally broke down the door the four demons had boarded prior to their attempt to gain access to Elsa's quarters. Needless to say, standing over the Queen with blood soaked hands and blades, with a widening circle of blood around the fallen monarch didn't serve Plinus many favors.

'My Queen!'

'Hostiles are down!' Plinus roared at the top of his voice, raising his open hands in the universal symbol of surrender above his head, 'but she's going to bleed out if we don't get her safety.'

'Henrik, put the sword down!' Anna ordered, still clasping her sister's hand, 'He saved her.'

There was a painful strained moment that passed between the black cloak and the royal guardsman, before finally, the blade slid back into it's sheath.

'Smart move, Guardsman,' Plinus scoffed, though the pun fell flat on the captain. 'Now give me a hand; clock is ticking if you want your Queen to live another day.'

* * *

'I give you one task, and what the hell happens?' Varro demanded as his feet hit cobbled stones, though the dark sarcasm in his voice quickly gave way to command the forces at his immediate disposal. 'Move your arses, Legion!'

There was a thunder of metal as the ten Guardsmen that had decided to accompany the Battlemaster on the last flight filed out in rapid order, fanning out into a rough semicircle, their rifles raised, daring a threat to make an appearance.

'Eyes up,' he instructed curtly, 'no mistake; if anything else is out there, they're going to hit us now. Girius, Quintus, on me.'

With silent nods, the trio of Guardsmen scattered from the formation, sprinting across the courtyard in a loose arrowhead, a five meter gap between each cloak in the gale. Rolling the last few meters into cover, Varro snapped his false hand up to attention beneath the carapace, signalling his two squadmates to unfold the field stretcher attached to Girius' back. The noise lost amid the storm, the metal frame hit the snow, and was promptly carried between the pair to the castle's doors.

A pair of sharp raps on the wood, and Varro soon found himself on the wrong end of a blade protruding from the opening.

'Little jumpy, Plinus,' he remarked casually, before he gestured for his team to move up, 'how bad is it?'

'Bad,' Plinus replied simply, 'went right through the torso; missed the heart by a margin, but her right lung is collapsed. I've already sealed it, but with the amount of blood she's lost, it won't take much to kill her now.'

'How much?'

'Three pints, maybe? I've replaced as much blood as I can with the artificial substitute, but...Girius!' The Hunter abruptly roared, spinning the lead Guardsman about as he trundled past the company with their backs braced to the wall that flanked the doorway, 'Back here!'

There was a mumbled apology, before the pair reversed their direction, bringing them beside the wounded stormcaller.

A hand on Varro's shoulder turned him around, into a pair of blue eyes that blazed like the storm beyond the comfort of the castle's walls.

'I'm coming,' Anna whispered, 'Wherever my sister's going, I'm coming.'

'I appreciate your loyalty to kin,' the Battlemaster answered impassionately through the helmet's vocal filters, 'but you're already wounded, Princess. There's a lot of open ground to the Omen, and I'm not sure if...'

He was answered by the clatter of wood, as the two crutches were left to fall the ground.

'We go together.' She reaffirmed. Varro could only shrug. He only really had to ensure one monarch made it. And despite the strict martial code of the Guard to treat all life outside the Council, until their official union with the intergalactic body, as expendable, he couldn't deny a respect for the girl, who would disregard her own safety if only to see her sister endure.

'Fine,' he sighed, before he produced a small vial from his med pack, and held it in offer. 'Stim?'

He was met by a confused glance, so he elaborated.

'Should stop the pain in your wound from inhibiting you. Last call.'

'Alright,' Anna nodded, not truly thinking of the consequences once again, her thoughts solely focused upon her sister's body, as the two Guardsmen hauled her upon the stretcher for travel. She was quickly pulled back to their conversation by the stabbing pain in her wrist, as Varro seized the outstretched hand and abruptly slid the tip of the needle head into a vein.

'You asked for it,' he grinned beneath the helm, killing the words of protest before they left Anna's open mouth, before he turned back to the troupe of men headed by the zealous commander Henrik who had nearly planted his sword into the Battlemaster on numerous occasions. 'Captain, any others who wish to accompany the Queen, follow the column. Plinus; hit the door. We're getting out of here.'

* * *

The Battlemaster and Hunter burst through the doors as a single entity, their eyes moving at a breakneck pace as they clarified every angle beyond the safety of the doors, held no dangers for the men at their backs.

'Clear to move,' he called softly, sparking off a thunderous rattle of feet, much to the dismay of the Battlemaster. Silence was golden, he reflected, and he wasn't entirely sure if his offer for any who placed his duty to his Queen above his own life to accompany the Guard was a good idea, considering it might give their position away. On the other hand though, he had to admit there were few occasions he'd ever witnessed where so many were willing to volunteer for a trip into a lion's den. Indeed, each man of the assembled force had stepped forth at the offer, bound by loyalty to a monarch who obviously cared for her own.

Or maybe they still simply didn't trust the Guard with the one they were sworn to protect, particularly after several bad run ins with the royal company over the past days...

A curse over the radio sent Varro and Plinus instinctively to the ground, whilst Girius and Quintus immediately fell to a knee each, presenting the smallest target possible for a sharpshooter.

'Contacts on the rooftops,' Tarus barked, 'five shooters! Marnus, get Regius into cover now; weapons free! Varro, we've got a problem here; you might want to hug the ground; we've got sentinels moving topside.'

The Battlemaster was just about to let a reply slip his mouth, when a long, bone spine hit the ground, sunk into the snow, barely a half meter from his foot. Instantly, he dove for the nearby pillar, before the support was showered with spines, sent ricocheting off the masonry in a cacophony of chipped stone.

'Stay back!' He roared, just in time, as Girius and Quintus backed up with seconds to spare, as the spines switched targets, scything through the space the pair had occupied only moments ago. In the distance, despite their suppressed design, the tell-tale hiss of hellfire leaving rifle barrels in mass volume was carried upon the wind, as a similar firefight began to ripple throughout the courtyard. Then, another howl met the Guardsman's ears; one of a feral animal in pain, before a heavy weight skidded off the tiles that lined the roof tops. It wasn't the first.

'Third Sentinel down,' someone reported, 'two more.'

'Plinus,' Varro called softly, though why he bothered with such over sealed comm lines was rather reflex over careful thought, 'got eyes?'

'Roughly,' the reply came, 'but I try and sight a shot, and there'll be enough spines to turn me into a pincushion.'

'Alright, Tarus,' the Battlemaster whispered, 'snoop and duck; fast. On my mark.'

'Ready, Varro.'

'Mark.'

It didn't take the greatest exposure of the body to draw the fire of the demons, as their wolf like shapes, with their uncharacteristic tails lined with row upon row of the releasable spines that also emerged from their tortured backs like a twisted hedgehog's, were more than capable of splitting a cornstalk at fifty meters. As a result, they were fairly confident in their ability at ten.

As the air came alive once again in the furious hailstorm directed at those in the shadow of the Omen, the two remaining Sentinels never saw the pair of black cloaks emerge from chiseled walls, and sight their targets.

Even though they were only exposed for a second, it was enough for Varro. He'd already pictured in his mind's eye where they'd be after all, and it didn't take a grave deal of additional adjustment on the Battlemaster's end to pop his target's head like a balloon with a single round. Plinus on the other hand, having never truly favoured the rifle, simply sent one of several dozen blades for his marked target, the fluid motion of the blade cutting through the gale, before it took the monster in the neck, sending a limp corpse sliding off the tiles for the eye to see. Had their Queen not been close to death, even the Royal guards would have been impressed.

For the Guard though, priorities always took precedence.

'Move!' Varro's below reverberated off the walls like a titan's shout, seemingly impossible for a being of such stature to generate, but it was enough to galvanize the assembled company into a full on sprint over the snow coated ground, for the Omen that still lay, quietly humming away as it awaited it's duty.

'You picked up a crowd, didn't you?' Tarus commented, as he spotted the large body of grey overcoats in hot pursuit of the four Guardsmen.

'Casualties?'

'Just the clutz,' the commander replied, nearly uncaringly, as Varro's eyes fell upon the subject of Tarus' comment, 'spine in the leg; nothing much.'

'Easy for you to say,' Regius grumbled through gritted teeth, his eyes to the heavens as Marnus continued his administrations, punching another syringe of stimulants into the Guardsman's system, before he readied a canister of sealant.

'We can't take that many people!' Tullius called from the cockpit into Varro's ear, 'not unless you want to get off the ground again!'

'Regius,' Varro asked, chewing his lip in thought, 'you still good?'

The short thumbs up gave him all he needed to know.

'Alright, Tarus; I want Legion to remain on the ground; scour the area, and make sure we capped each of the infiltrators. No stone unturned: clear? I'll bring the rest of the fifth down here as soon as possible to reinforce you.'

'Copy that, Hadrius,' Tarus nodded one last time in confirmation, before turning about once again, off to redirect what was left of his squad. With the weight issue sorted, Varro turned his attention back to the humans. Elsa's injuries had barely improved since he'd last checked, and the beginnings of red were starting to seep through the artificial seal applied.

Time to leg it out fast.

'Everyone in!' He thundered, before gesturing to the low row of seats that lined each side of the sleek craft's interior. 'Sit down, and pull the bar over your head down, unless you want to hit the ground. Now move it!'

Only pausing to check the casualty straps locking Elsa onto the table to prevent an unneeded flight around the interior of the craft amid the inevitable turbulence that came with high speeds, Varro signaled the thumbs up for the ascent, just as Girius and Quintus bailed out of the Omen's mouth to rejoin their brothers.

There was a rumble of thunder, before the black sigil of death rose into the sky, and vanished from sight once again.


	9. The Death of Humanity

_Machines are not substitutes for flesh; they are improvements  
__Ironseer Dius Caldonius, Ninety Second Shadow Guard_

If she wasn't so concerned over her sister's dying pulse, and actually looked up where she was going, Anna would have probably stopped dead in her tracks, logic demanding she turn around, a fear that had already claimed a number of Henrik's guard, and there was a growing gap between the small group of black cloaks which steered the gurney along darkened halls, and the men charged with both sisters' protection.

Indeed, Firebase Abaddon did not cite the most welcoming abode they had ever visited.

Most of the complex was in fact plunged in darkness; unlit, like a tomb or catacomb of old, thanks to the once nocturnal nature of the members of the Fifty Ninth. The vast majority of their number were more than capable of viewing their surroundings in the dark, and those who did not share their genetics, having been recruited from other worlds to fill their depleted ranks, typically found great use in the visors embedded in their helmets to complement their shortcomings for working in the dark. As a result, it was common practice amongst the Guard to leave the lights out, leaving those outside of their kind uncertain at advancing any further into their halls, gripped by the fear of the unknown.

Fortunately, Varro had enough empathy to light up the hallway the company was progressing down, but his refusal to light the rest of the complex left many corridors that flanked the pathway they took left the humans who had bothered to look up in shivers; each opening in the wall leading off to places unknown.

It didn't help when the occasional pair of red eyes glared back from the darkness, irate with the intrusion, or simply out of some skewed sense of humor.

Up ahead though, humor was the last thing on the plate.

'Get the door!' One Guardsman shouted, immediately sending one of their number racing ahead for a steel wall. Strangely, Anna noted, as she glanced up for only the slightest of moments, he seemingly hammered at a small panel on the side of the large space, before the wall itself rose to accommodate the unit.

Truth be told, Anna had never witnessed something quite as amazing as a metal plate; clearly weighing more than any barrier she'd seen in the past, and maybe as much as the entity Marshmallow that had disagreed with her in the past, raising itself at the whim of it's masters. Well, that was if one excluded the recent ascent into the air by the strange creature the Battlemaster had herded the group onto prior to leaving Arendelle, and the stomach turning sensation that followed.

But interest was something that could wait, she willed herself, before she pulled her eyes back to Elsa. A transparent mask, unlike the full faceplate of the Guard, had been pulled over her mouth and nose, but her eyes were still open. Wide and fearful.

'Keep talking to her,' the Guardsman closest to her instructed. She couldn't actually tell who had just addressed her, nor did she actually care, as she squeezed her sister's hand, pulling her gaze back.

'I'm here, Elsa,' she soothed, trying. Anything to remove that fear in her eyes. She couldn't see the agony in her sister's eyes again. 'I'm here.'

Abruptly, the moving table came to a halt, nearly causing Anna to crash head on into the black cloak ahead of her, as she tried to compensate for the sudden halt in velocity.

'Lift; on three. One, two, three.'

As one, four pairs of arms; three cold and hidden beneath steel, and one of flesh and blood, transferred the Queen to another bed.

As voices continued to holler and bark instructions, and the obstructing gurney they had wheeled the gifted woman in on was removed, Anna was able to clasp her sister's hand with both counterparts, her head placed in the nook of her kin's arm.

'I'm sorry Elsa,' she sobbed, 'I'm sorry. Please; just hang in there...'

'Anna?'

The dispassionate voice in her ear, emulating from what she had once presumed to be empty space, nearly caused her to leap from her skin.

'We need to go. Terinius needs the floor.'

Her head willed her to rise, and leave, but her heart held firm, and, try as she might, her fingers refused to move, intertwined with Elsa's, in the same blood. It was then that the Battlemaster sighed, and, with an audible click emitting from the helm, the unsympathetic, mechanized voice disappeared.

'Please Anna,' he implored, 'your sister is in good hands.'

A cold hand guided hers away from the warmth of her kin, and, carefully yet briskly, guided her from her sister's side, as the Guardsman Varro had identified as Terinius loomed over Elsa's still form, nearly like a wolf; capable of killing without qualms, and yet with a fierce duty to those it stood by, and those beneath it's charge. Even so, she couldn't leave without a goodbye again. The last time that had happened marked a thirteen year gulf that neither would have wanted to repeat.

'You won't be alone Elsa,' she promised, a bloodied hand pressed to her own heart, 'we'll be right here for you.'

There was a low hiss of pistons once again, as the infirmary bay doors sealed themselves shut once more, leaving Anna yet again with a wall between herself, and last of her kin.

* * *

It was close to dusk when he reached the Eagle's Perch.

'Just a bit further, buddy,' Kristoff said, clinging to Sven's back as the reindeer continued at his breakneck pace, unfaltering even after hours on end. 'We could hold up at the outpost for the evening.'

He was already beginning to regret his choice to plunge on for the Eagle's Perch after leaving reaching Brevrik only half an hour ago, after passing word to Jens and his unit to head back for the rallying of Arendelle's forces. Despite Jens' offer to send one of his own runners to the outpost beyond the mountain pass, Kristoff had politely turned the offer down, a burning sensation of duty feeding the fire that kept him moving.

Now though, the winter cold was beginning to suffocate that flame, as he pulled the cloth around his neck closer to his flesh, trying to avoid freezing to death, alone in the wilderness.

Funny to think he'd regret being alone, he wondered silently. Throughout the better part of his life, he'd spent with a reindeer, and little else. Even his time with his adoptive family was somewhat limited, as he continued the life of a harvester upon the frozen lakes that dotted Arendelle's peaks, a life that had taught solitude as a virtue. And yet, now, with someone to return to, that life was slowly dying. His days of isolation were ended.

Sven's low grunt pulled him from his thoughts, and dimly, Kristoff realized the reindeer had stumbled upon their sought shelter; a low, wooden structure that reminded him too much of an irate shop keeper that needed some anger management lessons. In fact, the only real noticeable difference between the two lodges was the fact that this one was partly fortified with a one man gatehouse lining the road, as a means of stopping travelers crossing the border.

Strange that no one was even manning the road, though, in the blizzard, maybe they had not simply heard him.

'Hope we don't get thrown out again,' he muttered, more to himself, but the look in Sven's eye was enough to tell him what his old friend was thinking.

_You called him the crook, not me._

Knowing he'd never get the last word in, even if he started voicing the reindeer's side of the argument, Kristoff quickly dismounted, and hit the ground, leading Sven to the stable area, eager for a warm place to spend the night.

It was then that his foot hit something hard in the snow and, unprepared, Kristoff slammed into the ground in a heap, cursing his luck, when he realized he had revealed a trace of red in the white blanket of powder.

Uneasily, he retracted his foot with some care, only for his hand to plunge deeper into the snow drift, onto something that, to the touch, could have been mistaken for flesh.

He let out an involuntary shout of fear, before he leapt from the snow, leaning on Sven for some balance, as he realized his first step had indeed uncovered a man's head. Bloodied, scarred, and very dead. But most disturbing was the terrifying scream of agony that was still etched into his face, giving Kristoff enough to realize the poor soul had still been alive when his killer had ripped out his tongue.

A low drum echoed in his mind. A cacophony of beats so irregular he couldn't actually identify what it was, something so chaotic, it was impossible to fathom, until the eye met it. Or rather, met them.

They were beyond count; dozens quickly became hundreds as they marched in a loose gaggle along the path, emerging from the blazing snow like a wraith from the fog that marked it's tomb. Each was unique in a horrifying way; mutilated, some with more than four limbs, others with no distinguishable mass at all, some with bony spines spewing from their tortured backs; each one clearly beyond human.

Each one's eyes blazing into his own, rooting the man to the spot, as their march accelerated to a furious charge: a frenzy for blood driving them forth. A dozen more of the twisted, blood soaked fiends burst from the small shack he'd been seeking only moments earlier, and in that moment, Kristoff could only fathom how long it would take for him to die, like the men who had previously manned the post.

Then, the horde turned into a slaughterhouse.

The forests and hills that enclosed the small road burst to life like a volcano's eruption, spewing fire and death down in suppressed streams of fire that ripped the advancing monsters apart in a silent massacre, if one ignored the screams of the dying.

A moment later, as if some button had just been triggered, the audio of a battle was restored, with the roar of explosions rippling through the mass of demons, as canisters of what he could only assume to be black powder were lobbed terrific distances from beyond the eye could see, only to land and detonate at the clustered horde's heart, tearing them to bloody shreds of corrupt flesh, as they milled about in the slaughter, unable to find themselves an enemy to face.

They quickly regretted such a wish to their dark gods. Out of the corner of his eye, Kristoff found himself suddenly witnessing a dozen shadows ripping into the right flank of the demons, cutting them down as easily as a butcher would dismember a dead piece of meat. And yet, there was no bloodlust, no zealous fury in their actions; only calm control, as the killers faded away into the blizzard with the skill only a spectre of a dead soul could achieve, before a retaliation could be met.

Instinctively, the horde turned it's attention to the side they had sighted a foe upon, and that was when they emerged.

Figures, wrapped in familiar black cloth, and honed steel in their hands, burst from the foliage on the opposing side of the trapped column. Strangely, not a steak of gunfire rippled from the furious attackers, and for a moment, Kristoff truly believed them to be insane, when a thunderous voice split the valley, alerting the demons all too late of the threat to their flank.

'Death is our Fate!' it roared, 'Death is the fate of all!'

At point blank range, the unsheathed rifles, unaimed as they were, tore through flesh and bone, dropping many before they could even turn to face the new threat. And yet, despite their capability to wage war from a distance, the shadows continued to advance at their unfaltering pace, until the black cloaks crashed into the milling horde a second later, blade and fury driving a barb deep into the horde's heart.

Scattered, confused, and seemingly outnumbered by a foe that seemingly continued to appear from the dark, some attempted to flee, only to blunder head long into the dozen or so other shadows that had withdrew moments before. Gladly, they complied with their prey's last requests, and granted the final peace through the flick of a bladed edge.

Barely five minutes after they'd first appeared through the wall of snow, and once terrible display of corruption was strewn across the valley floor, their killers having vanished back into the shadows they'd sprung from.

All but one, that now turned upon the pair, paralyzed by a mixture of awe, and fear. As the bloodsoaked Guardsman, advanced, carelessly discarding what could have been taken as a dismembered limb from his shoulder, Kristoff couldn't help but liken the advancing monster to the demons they had just annihilated.

When it was barely two meters away, it finally ground to a halt, slipping a drawn blade, strangely free of blood for the action it had just seen, back into it's sheath, eyes still as cold as that of the demons' march.

* * *

'I won't lie to you,' Terinius sighed, as he held out a flat, glowing screen with an indistinguishable volume of strange markings of text only an alien could comprehend, 'it's not good.'

It was three hours later, when the Guardsman had emerged from the steel plated doors, with enough blood on his person to induce a short black out in Anna. Confidence was not exactly aided by the image of the one entrusted in repairing the damage to emerge like a butcher. At least he'd managed to clean the horrific concoction before Anna woke, prohibiting another panic attack.

'The blade did a lot more damage than the initial assessment revealed,' he continued, projecting a holographic feed of his report into thin air. While she couldn't actually read the glyphs and symbols that lined the diagrams sides, the three dimensional image of her sister's insides that highlighted a good deal of her chest area as red, was enough to convey the gravity of the Guardsman's news.

'Serrations were deployed after the blade actually penetrated the lung,' the Guardsman continued, mechanically as before, 'which has effectively destroyed the right lung. And, at the same time,' he waved to the hologram, urging it to close in on the long band of red that ran along the suspended body's back, 'two of the serrations did significant damage to the spinal cord. If we don't take drastic measures, should she awaken, she'll be paralyzed from the waist down, and she'll be on a respirator for the rest of her life.'

'Oh my God,' Anna breathed. The tears refused to wait any longer, and she pulled her head down into her hands, wracked with the news.

'You said drastic measures?' Varro asked, 'What are you suggesting?'

'Well,' the Guardsman dragged the word out, trying to collect his thoughts, wary of providing false hope, 'Human biology is not dissimilar to great levels from that of the Titulian. It might take a while, but the implementation of augmentics to replace the damage could be considered.'

'What is that?' Henrik demanded, before his voice rose to a shout. 'You want to put alien technology into the Queen? That's mad; it'll kill her...'

'Actually,' Varro sighed, fiddling with a small dial concealed in his elbow, 'I could disagree; Augmentics aren't designed to kill.'

The carapace on his wrist alone fell away on que, revealing the skeletal hand the group had seen earlier, amid the Guard rescue attempt, silencing Henrik.

'I mean, I'm still here. Most of these fellas,' he quickly gestured around the room, addressing the others of his kind, 'have lost something at some point.'

'But replacing flesh with iron,' the man stuttered, 'it's...'

'Would you rather be alive, or comatose for life? Where a grave could be preferable?'

That shut the captain up.

'I mean no disrespect,' Varro continued, turning his attention back to Anna, who was slowly rising to the development, 'but this could well be your sister's only chance.'

'What would you do?'

The Guardsman responded by hefting a small, metallic, yet fleshy board in his hands. It was barely half a palm in size, but it came alive to his touch, and like an insect, a series of segmented legs, or rather clamps, erupted from it's walls, snapping at thin air.

'It might not look pretty, but it should restore motor functions to the lower body. If it goes well, it will, in theory, reconnect the spine, and it's chemical make up should prevent a rejection.'

'Should.' Anna couldn't help but dwell on the word.

'Well, no one ever reacts in the same way,' the Battlemaster admitted, 'and I don't think anyone around here has cut into a human. But,' he quickly added, 'I have faith in Terinius. If he believes he can do it, your sister may yet live.'

'Anna,' a subdued voice implored, though if it was Henrik, or her own soul, she could not say for certain, 'please don't go any further. We don't know what it might turn her into.'

Could she live with that? After all, there was already something gravely abnormal about the black cloaks, as if their souls had long since departed their bodies, in favor of the will to win a war. If it had something to do with their manipulation of machinery within a body...

And yet, was the trade off worth it? To watch her sister wither away, confined to a bed for the rest of her life, a shade of her former self?

She knew that was certainly not a fate her sister would have chosen for herself.

* * *

'Do what you must,' Varro instructed as the pair ghosted through darkened halls, 'but you keep to your promise. Clear?'

'All due respect intended, Varro,' Terinius sighed, 'but Council doctrine is clear; any non council auxiliaries who receive augmentics in the field need to have a kill and override switch implemented. I don't like it myself, but...no exceptions.'

'Bollocks,' the Battlemaster hissed, before an arm shot up, aimed back down the way he came, 'you saw them, and I've seen her; the worst thing we could do is not to trust her, and end up nearly killing her again.'

Terinius faltered. He did not truly stand with the Council's side on the matter, but the Code of Penance held harsh charges for any who compromised the Council's technology. Varro though, was beyond fearing a higher authority.

'You mess with her in any way, I'll have your head for lying to her sister's face. And even if I don't, I won't stop her. In fact, just give it to me.'

'Sir?'

'The failsafe. Now.'

Muted, Terinius tossed the Battlemaster the small remote trigger that was synced solely to the set of augmentics he held in his hands; one being the spinal relay, whilst the other hung limply in the plated hands; a lung without air. Wordlessly, Varro simply gripped the remote with far greater force than was needed, demolishing the device.

'Hope is a fragile force, Terinius,' Varro mused softly, 'so easily led to ruin, and yet the answer to all our problems. Now get moving, and not a word to anyone. I'll fix the records.'

'On my honor,' Terinius answered without hesitation. Truth be told, it was liberating for the conscience to reign for once.

'One last thing; nothing visible, alright?'

'That would be detrimental to her recovery time, Varro, and I do not believe time is something of great commodity around here.'

'I'll tell you what grafting a piece of metal into her back will be; it'll be real detrimental to anyone's morale if they start viewing her, and all of us, as beyond human. Keep it internal.'

'Very well, Battlemaster,' the burdened Guardsman replied, finally admitting to his commander's logic. There was a reason, after all, why Guardsmen never left their armor. To see what lay beneath would have destroyed any connection with the souls that governed the suits' actions; the armor, no matter how concealing, allowed for the mind to picture one's own kind beneath the plate, rather than the alien that truly resided there. Silently, he disappeared once more into the dark, leaving the Battlemaster with a mutilated box case of steel in his grasp.

Quietly, Varro stuffed the crumpled remains of the failsafe into the small, empty pouch on his belt for later disposal, just in time, as footsteps sent him hurtling around.

'Was looking for you,' Plinus' voice sounded in his head, 'we need you up on the command deck. Right now.'

'Situation?'

'Numerous,' the Fieldmaster continued, as they progressed to a stride, 'Teronius made first contact with the enemy, just North of a pass in the mountains the locals are calling the Eagle's Perch. I'd call the operation a success, with, you know, no deaths on our end, and no survivors on theirs, and as a result, the third company is in pretty high spirits, and they also picked up a surviving human who's on his way over by Omen, but there's a new development.'

Sensing Plinus was holding back details simply due to the lack of a definitive visual aid, Varro's stride accelerated to a silent jog. Wars rarely waited for both sides to meet their preparations.

* * *

With only the slightest hiss of pressurized air departing their enclosed chambers, the ramp of the Omen was lowered in relative silence, as the black cloaks filed out at a quick march, the wounded either accompanied by a single brother, or not at all, as they made their way for the infirmary, leaving a noticeably pale Kristoff to stumble out on his own. Teronius had never really been democracy's greatest symbol, but getting locked into a seat for a solid half hour of hell was definitely one of the worser things he could do, and it had been quite the miracle, the man thought, that he'd managed to hold his guts.

Though he'd seen the sleek craft glide through the night's chilly air, he had not anticipated the apparent stillness of the cloaked craft refusing to apply to it's interior, leaving him, and a gaunt Sven, fairly worse for the ware, after a turbulent, first flight.

'Clear the landing pad,' an unsympathetic voice intoned, 'Omen three-seven; clear for launch.'

Unprepared as he was for the sudden burst of power from the supposedly imobile Omen, Kristoff was launched, face first into the snow, cursing his luck for trusting a black cloak in 'safe transport'.

That was at least until a familiar shout dragged half deaf ears up to attention.

'Kristoff!'

'Anna?' He asked it hazily, uncertain as he tried to clear the snow from his eyes obtained from a hard impact with the ground, but as his vision cleared, it was unmistakable, as the distant figure waded through powder to reach him. It was more of a inbuilt distrust of anyone who tried to end their lives that had prompted the question of Anna's existence at the site but now, Kristoff could be somewhat pleased that he'd allowed the black cloaks to persuade him to this course, regardless of the use of drawn blades in the conversation.

'What happened to you?' He asked in confusion, as he realized the Princess was bounding forth without much regard for the brutal injury that had earlier crippled her movements, but a tight embrace quickly cut off any further line of enquiry on his part, and for a moment at least, they could let their guard down, as he moved to return the gesture, only to find tears rolling down the rosy face buried in his chest.

'Elsa...' she choked, the words lost in the sorrow at her heart, 'they nearly got her.'

'Who?' Kristoff managed, trying to comprehend what was reaching his ears, 'the Guard?'

'No; there were four of them, well, nine, I think. They came for her, and they nearly killed her; now, Elsa might not walk again and...'

'What?!' Kristoff gasped in disbelief, 'Where is she?'

'In there,' Anna gestured vaguely with a single hand, waving at the ominous opening in the mountain at her back, something which did little to place Kristoff at ease, 'but...I don't know what I've done: I could have killed her!'

'None of this is your fault,' he insisted, trying to sooth his frantic wife, 'Anna, this is not on you.'

'No, you don't understand,' she whimpered, 'you remember Varro's hand; they asked me if I could sanction them doing it to Elsa, and...'

'What did you say?'

'What was the alternative?' Anna sobbed, trying to pray for someone to support her choice, 'that she be confined to a bed for the rest of her life, in a coma? I don't know, Kris; I don't know what I'm doing anymore.'

Lost for words, Kristoff pulled Anna closer, trying to bring some comfort to a wracked soul. Truth be told, he had no idea what anyone could have done in that place. But he believed he'd spent enough time around the sisters to know what Elsa herself would have wanted.

'I think she would have wanted to go through with it,' he soothed, holding her close, 'I think she would have wanted to live life, not count the days go by.'

'A leap of faith,' a voice cut in, 'in preference to a long life of regret.'

The sudden interruption spun the pair about, to find a lone black cloak knelt in the snow, peering down upon the pair similar to a hunter surveying it's prey. Though Kristoff could not hope to recognize the personality beneath it, the gruesome sigil of a raven tearing a sinew of flesh from a fallen body that was stamped into the plate of the Guardsman bore familiar recognition in Anna's tear stained eyes. One tended to remember anything that faced down a pair of demonic assassins without faltering.

'I hate to intrude,' Plinus apologized, before he straightened upright, looming tall over both man and woman, 'but Varro need you on the command deck now.'

'What is it?'

'I think it's better you see for yourself,' the shadow replied cryptically. A second later, and they'd already lost sight of him, as he plunged back into the gaping maw of the Firebase, nearly daring them to follow.

A moment later, and, hesitant as they may have been, the pair, alongside the ever present reindeer that echoed their footsteps, trudged into darkness.

* * *

'Alright,' Varro began, unusually troubled without the helmet's automated filters to hide his exasperation, 'please tell me you don't know anything about this.'

Sat in front of what was possibly the most intriguing map of all time, Anna could only shrug. The table like display had thrown up a modular landscape of the entire region, the false solidity of it betrayed by the light blue tinge and transparency of the light that generated the hologram. At the shrug though, Varro immediately hissed a command, and most of the landscape faded away, as the image dove in on a single patch of ocean, and an odd twenty eight wooden structures in the ocean.

'Half an hour ago, the Charon satellite; our last standing Concealed High Altitude Reconnaissance and Observation Node, picked up these in the area, and their course puts them headed straight for Arendelle. At their current velocity, they'll be in visual range in four days. And I'm not an idiot, so don't tell me that that is a merchant ship.'

At his words, the fleet was swept away, to admit a full projection of a single vessel. Truth be told, it was more of a monster than a ship, at least any ship Anna had seen. The emissary vessels that had filled Arendelle's harbor three years past had only carried a modest armement, with perhaps four guns a side. This thing though, easily carried at least twenty a flank. But there was one shard of similarity between at least one of the vessels she'd seen during the winter incident, and that now threatened her home. While it did not fly a flag upon it's mast like the regular vessel, it appeared someone had not bothered to remove the two smaller variants of their country's markings; attached to the stern of the ship, not expecting anyone out of visual range to be capable of viewing the red lion that fluttered in the wind. A sigil that had not flown into Arendelle's harbors for over three years.

'That's a ship of Wessleton.'


	10. The Costs of Greed

_The coin is undeserving of care, for it cannot return your love.  
__Henalus Minix; Councilor, upon signing the abolition of currency in the Council._

* * *

'Well I can only say that that was quite a tale.'

With the actual tone of his voice lost through the helmet, Anna was unable to tell of what the speaker, or rather, Victus, if memory served her correctly, actually believed of the recount she had just given. There were perhaps a dozen of them, clustered around a table maybe half of the Great Hall's length. It was more than strange that they refused to sit, though the commodity had been offered to the humans present. Naturally, Henrik and his men had refused, and were currently at attention behind Anna and Kristoff, as they completed retelling the events that had gripped the kingdom in the wake of Elsa's coronation. The only one of the black cloaks that was seated was in fact the Battlemaster, and, having only joined them at the table after insisting they do so, Anna was fairly certain he had only done so to remove any feelings of oddity from the pair, as they sat in the home of shadows, at a 'privilege' the black cloaks did not allow themselves.

What was more, though each one was strikingly similar, Anna believed she could find each one in memory; the crests upon each Guardsman's plate being the only identifying marker of the person beneath.

Though she could only suspect such, the shadows that surrounded the table were indeed the same ones, save for Victus, who had previously threatened their lives in the first disastrous meeting between the Fifty Ninth and the Humans of Arendelle.

'I told you truth could be stranger than fiction,' Varro grinned, at a somewhat bemused Ignus, before he turned back to the pair. 'So let me get this straight; your sister froze the kingdom over, and in the process, this Duke of Wessleton sent his men after her in a bid to end the winter?'

'Along with others,' Anna muttered, but Varro wasn't listening anymore.

'But that makes no sense,' he mused, trying to wrap his head around the absurd idea of currency, 'assuming your sister actually pissed him off enough to start a war, why wait three years?

'Delayed reaction?' Tarus offered, without a trace of seriousness.

'Anything over the years?' The Battlemaster asked, ignoring Legion's squad commander, 'Raids, sabotage, anything leading to a full scale war?'

'No,' Anna immediately replied, 'apart from a lot of letters pleading for a lift on the embargo. Elsa just had them dumped in the fjord.'

'Could be enough to rile a pomus Duke up,' Victus noted, but Varro dismissed the notion.

'You don't initiate a surprise assault on a city without a good reason, and I think anyone's grudge will fade by three years. There's something else we aren't seeing.'

'Manipulation? Corruption?'

'They'd offer the most obvious reasons for unwarranted aggression,' the Battlemaster muttered, nodding toward Girius, who had just voiced such possibilities, 'and frankly, it'll play right into Foresh's hands; with the fjord blockaded, he could easily just sit in the mountains and initiate a siege.'

'A siege we'll lose.' No one bothered to even oppose Victus' prediction. The very idea of plunging firepower directed from the mountains surrounding Arendelle, with the route to the sea blocked off by almost thirty warships, was one that did not beckon images of victory.

'So then what? We sink them at sea?'

'I'm considering,' the Battlemaster replied, although, he only turned back to the pair of human representatives at the table, 'but twenty eight ships and their crews; that could be enough to give Foresh a pause. If they aren't already possessed, and still acting on free will, they can be reasoned with, if you could work something out?'

'What?'

'A peace deal, or even an alliance,' Varro began, but he was quickly cut off by the response that hit him at a rapid pace.

'Are you kidding?' Anna spat, 'the Duke nearly killed my sister, and any 'deal' we work out can't end well; he's a crook.'

'Well, first impressions aren't always accurate,' a voice that Varro truly wished would shut up, as it piped in, 'I mean, our first meeting didn't go too well, considering we nearly killed you and your...'

'Thank you for the honesty, Girius,' the Battlemaster hissed through gritted teeth, 'but I don't believe positive memories are best suited with such ideas. Anyhow, Anna, I could advise you to bury what sins lie in the past. Getting caught in a ring is the last option I'll be willing to take in fighting a war.'

* * *

It was the insurmountable pain in her abdomen that finally drew open weary eyelids. Already lightheaded under the influence of the suppressants that had been fed into her blood to prevent the nervous signals of a seven foot Guardsman cutting into her ribcage reaching her head, and killing her from shock, it took the greatest amount of will power to even force a sound from her throat, before Elsa realized a transparent mask had been placed over her mouth and nose. The air was foul; far from cold and natural; rather, it was warm, and nearly recycled in it's artificial nature. Keen to remove the impediment, Elsa tried to raise a hand to her face, only before she realized the limb was incapable of movement; a band of force upon her wrist informing her that someone had evidently decided to strap her to the table for whatever procedure she had just endured in silence.

'She should be up soon,' a cold voice sounded behind steel walls, 'You have five minutes; anymore at this point will probably be too much.'

The words sent a chilling grasp closing about her heart, as she remembered where those voices had haunted her. Recollection was painful to say the least, against the dulling effects of the concoctions that flowed into her veins, but the last thing she could remember was being run through by a blade protecting...

_Oh my God,_ she thought, _They got her._

Although the temperature was falling, it was not plummeting fast enough for her liking, as weary limbs were unable to break through the bindings, before whatever was out there could come back...

The door slid open, and Elsa found herself face to face with one of the mysterious black cloaks, though, after witnessing her sister stabbed by one of their number, and seeing one upon loosing recent memory, she didn't know what to think. Then she saw the bloodied blade in his hand, and a surge of horrific images of what surgery could be performed when someone blacked out, cruised through her head. Quite simply, Elsa had never been more terrified in her life, as the red eyed creature calmly turned the sharp instrument in it's hands.

But then, as a familiar voice met her ears, fear vanished into the wind, and the thin sheet of ice that had begun crawling outward from her supine form quickly receded away into nothingness.

'Elsa. Are you okay?'

She wasn't able to put together much of a reply beneath the oxygen mask, but she had enough time to wonder if her sister was about to wrap her arms about her, and kill her on the spot, as a new burst of feeling, and pain, erupted from her torso.

Thankfully, Anna had enough sense to avoid wrapping the injured Queen in a full embrace, and simply chose to wrap her arms about her sister's left arm, which ran exposed on the steel surface, outside the sheet Terinius had covered the grievous wounds with. It took a grave amount of strength to interlock her fingers with her sister's, but as they did so, Elsa could breath a final sigh of relief.

Gently, a pair of plated fingers removed the mask she'd quickly grown to hate, although they lacked the warmth of the close press of her sister's body.

'Anna,' she managed to cough, but whatever else she had planned to say died in her effort to draw breath.

'Shh, it's alright,' Anna comforted her, placing a hand over a cold forehead, 'you're alright.'

'Where are...'

'You got stabbed in the chest,' her sister continued, urging her to hush once more, 'but they were able to rescue you: you'll be alright.'

'You were attacked by an infiltrator class demon,' an impassioned voice added, nearly causing Elsa to leap from her place, not expecting the mechanical tone to break into her thoughts, 'quite amazed they even got you here alive.'

'I can't feel,' Elsa mumbled, 'I can't feel my legs.'

Nervously, Anna turned to face the grim faced Guardsman who was placed well out of Elsa's sight, before she turned back to her sister, the unfaltering warmth returned to her eyes.

'You'll be fine Elsa,' she repeated, 'they'll heal you. I swear, you'll be back on your feet in no time.'

'You always weren't,' Elsa coughed, a thin smile across her face, 'a very good liar.'

The short flash of doubt across her face was all Elsa needed to know, as she sank back into the bed, trying to come to terms with what she now knew to be lost.

Anna simply remained silent. She did not quite know how her sibling would take either variant of the truth, that she was indeed paralyzed, or the fact that she's regain mobility soon, with the minor drawback of cutting into her back again, and installing a module that would no longer make her fully human.

'You'll be fine Elsa,' she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek, 'I promise you, we'll be able to carry out life together. There's just somethings that need to be done now. But when I'm back, I swear, I'll be right here, to the end.'

* * *

How the Guard could stomach the rapid, unpredictable, and violent jolts of the Omen, as it hurtled through the sky, Anna had little to no clue, if only for the fact they were, as Kristoff put it, simply mad. Adrenaline, and an urge to see Elsa reach the safety of medical treatment, regardless of it's location in a dark fortress that did not exactly declare itself a haven, had served to eliminate most of the stomach churning events that had plagued the rest of the guards that had accompanied them.

Now though, without a dying sibling at her side to hold her attention from the growing sensation that was rising from her stomach to her throat, she felt positively sick.

'Do me a favor,' an insensitive Tullius called from the cockpit, 'try to keep it in the bag, because two times in a day is just rude.'

'You don't have a heart, do you?' she shot back, clutching the safety bar that held her down the seat, the tension in her arms somewhat relieving the sickening feeling in her mouth. It didn't help with the fact Varro, and probably five other shadows, from the Legion squad, continued to amble around as if on solid ground, in low conversation.

They'd been in flight for days on end by now, she reasoned. Or maybe it was just the distortion of time that occurred in accordance to one's ability to enjoy the time. In this case, the hour and a half was simply one long drawn out road to hell, as they continued to climb and climb into the sky. The supposed medication she'd popped in her mouth prior to undertaking the journey certainly wasn't helping.

In fact, the only real consolation was the fact that she wasn't the only one in the sick boat, as Kristoff, Henrik, and his three guardsmen, glanced back at her tortured grimace with equally pale faces.

Then, a moment later, everything went from pear shaped, to downright pitiful, as alarm klaxons blared. For a gut wrenching second, she briefly wondered if that meant they were about to drop eleven thousand meters back to Earth, but if that was the case for the Shadows, they certainly didn't seem unnerved for their situation.

'That's your cue, lads,' Varro muttered, as he finished locking a final strap to another Guardsman's arm, and it was then that Anna realized they had all in fact, been only making adjustments to two of the present Guardsmen. Indeed, it appeared as if the two Shadows' suits were reinforced with significantly larger frames, upon which a fabric was held in place between their drawn limbs, as they readed, for whatever 'it' might be.

'Drop in sixty seconds,' Tullius intoned, 'doors opening, masks on.'

_Drop_? Anna was apprehensive at best, as to what the word heralded when one was over ten kilometers into the sky.

At worst, she was terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought. So much so that she missed the second call for the sizable oxygen masks they had been issued before ascending into the night, until Varro decided to take matters into his own hands. After experiencing Girius' administrations first hand, Anna shouldn't have expected any more, as the Battlemaster abruptly pulled the hard material over her face, slammed a needle into her arm which would apparently prevent a blackout due to oxygen deprivation, and promptly sounded off an all clear.

Then the doors opened, to permit a perfect view of the clouds below, and the all too terrifying aspect of falling.

Thankfully, her scream was lost in the roar of the wind, as the two appointed Guardsmen stepped forward for the opening in the once sealed structure of the Omen.

'Window for intercept with the fleet is closing,' the Raven continued, 'thirty seconds.'

'You have your objective, Guardsmen,' Varro said, clasping the two clad figures by a cloaked shoulder, 'get in, halt that fleet by any means that doesn't involve lethal force; rip the rudder from the flagship, cut down the sails, whatever it takes, but no one sees you. Clear?'

'Understood,' the two shadows replied immediately, a fist placed against their hearts, 'Great Father watch over you, sir.'

'And may He be your shield,' the Battlemaster finished for them, 'good luck.'

Abruptly, the lights that illuminated the interior of the Omen plunged out into darkness, signalling a storm of feet, as the two figures charged for the doorway. Then, to the great shock of any who had not witnessed a Guard wing suit deployment in the past, the two figures were gone over the edge, into the void beyond.

At that prospect, the second the mask was removed, Anna was finally sick.

* * *

It was another half hour, before the accursed iron bird they flew upon began it's inevitable descent.

Utterly exhausted from an unforgiving journey through the turbulent air, by the time Varro switched the lights back on in preparation for the next deployment, Anna was slumped to the side, lightly dozing in exhaustion after two straight hours of holding her guts in protest of a transport she had no intentions of reboarding.

Like always though, sympathy seemed beyond their newfound 'allies', as the flicker of the fluorescent lights promptly took a sledgehammer to any illusion of rest in the coming hours.

'Alright fellas, wake up; eyeballs back up, lets move it!'

For a moment at least, Anna half prayed for her predicament to simply be the remnants of a half remembered dream, only for the loud rap of metal within the close proximity of her forehead to jolt her back to the land of the living.

'No exceptions for royalty in the field,' a Guardsman grinned, before he unlimbered her safety lock, 'we've all got an equal chance of ending up at His side, after all.'

Groggily, and nearly teetering over the precipice of a craft she had not realized was still open, a steel plated hand arrested her movement toward an early grave.

'Now are we even?' a familiar voice asked, even beneath the vocal filters. It was then that Anna recognized the sigil of the lilith fox emplaced upon the Guardsman's chest; Girius, the same one that had nearly killed her, saved her, and then nearly indirectly killed her again, with putting her in a disability with four demons howling for her blood.

Although her resent for the first and last man who had attempted to end her life had hardly faded, a small voice in her gut told her the Guardsman's efforts were hardly that of a snake's.

Then again, that was the same voice that had willed her into the serpent's arms three years ago.

'Thanks,' she quickly mumbled, withdrawing her hand as quickly as she could, without placing herself too close to the precipice of death again. Thankfully, Girius simply turned back to the work at hand, locking bands of blades, and small metallic cases to his chest and belt, each dulled the same matt black his carapace was, giving no reflection to an observer.

Unlike the others though, the was one notable difference in Girius' armement, in that the long barreled rifle he strapped to his back was easily twice the size of even his Battlemaster's. What's more, he had a similar frame to the first two Guardsmen who had exited mid flight strapped to his back...

She realized what was happening nearly too late, and a panicked dive to one side stopped her from being tackled out of the airborne transport, as the Guardsman hurled himself from the ship, through the space she had just occupied, limbs splayed apart, before the fabric deployed, turning the hulking figure into a small bird that promptly disappeared into the night.

'Out of interest,' she asked, clinging to a steel support for a guarantee to remain aboard the descending vessel, 'how do they land?'

'Er, you hit the ground.' The shadow was so deadpan, she could have almost thought him to be serious, when Varro gave her a sidelong glance. It didn't take a genius to see the massive grin behind that mask, combined with the silent rise and fall of one of their compatriots heads, in suppressed laughter.

'And what happens if we fall out, without that thing?' Anna tried to mimic the strange contraption upon the' backs of the previously departed Guardsmen, but, with one hand refusing to leave the metal rail, it looked more like an impersonation of a chicken, as the wind continued to tug her toward the opening. Luckily, most of the Guardsmen assembled had not set eyes on a fowl, so the impression was an easy matter to guess. Not that their reply was any more encouraging.

'Then you hit the ground,' Varro answered, 'except, at a far higher speed.'

'How fast?'

'Enough to turn you into a paste,' the Battlemaster replied offhandedly, before he turned back, to address the uncaring Raven in the next compartment. 'Tullius? Time to landing?'

'Dropping us fast,' the reply came, 'but I don't have an LZ; ropes in five.'

'Alright, gather round,' Varro instructed, pulling the small group of humans around the table his Guardsmen had previously surrounded, 'we're not going to be able to land directly, so what's going to happen is this; we'll deploy four ropes, we'll grab them, and descend. Clear?'

'How far are we talking about?' Kristoff asked, already apprehensive over the answer.

'Low drop,' the Battlemaster mused to himself, 'means less than fifty feet; maybe ten meters, or less.'

In theory, in comparison to diving off a two hundred foot cliff with a cut safety line, it would be a walk in the park.

* * *

Truth be told, Varro was hardly expecting the Princess of all those present, to be the first to throw herself off the perch, following the Guardsmen's deployment, as the three remaining black cloaks fanned out in rapid order, rifles raised, eyes fixed to Storm Nodes and still lines across digital displays. Content that their position was secure for now at least, Varro had signalled Ignus and Quintus forward in a standard search pattern, only to turn about to see a single person descending in the wind.

Although a desperation to leave the sickening vessel probably played a part, a brazen lack of fear could not be denied by the Battlemaster. Unfortunately, aside from the Prince by marriage, who was in the mid process of reaching for a line, there was a lack of progress down the drop lines that continued to compromise the Omen's presence with every second it remained uncloaked.

'Tullius,' he growled softly over the comms, 'you tell them that if they wait any longer, you have my blessing to throw them off.'

The reaction from the irate Raven must have been immediate, judging from the very fact that only a second after the last word had left Varro's mouth, the unlit aircraft's exit port was filled with the panicked, quickened movements of four more shadows that tumbled out in tight order along the four lines that thinly connected the Omen's belly to the ground beneath it.

'Last man out,' Tullius reported back, with a grin all too evident under the helm, 'pulling out now; I'll be on station if you need me, Varro.'

The Battlemaster simply replied with an outstretched thumb raised to the ascending shape, as it faded once more into the night, leaving the small company, shrouded in the darkened clearing.

Instinctively, one man at Henrik's side reached for a lantern held at his side, but an iron grip stopped the motion.

'It pays to not start a parade march,' Varro whispered softly, 'until we know we aren't being watched by Foresh, we maintain a low profile.'

Then, like it's counterpart in the sky, the Shadow Guardsman dissipated into the dark, ghosting the movements of his former brethren who had already become one with the night.

* * *

It was another hour later when the nerve wracked half dozen reached the sanctuary of an old enemy. For what she'd heard of it, Wessleton was hardly the flowing marketplace Anna had been expecting from rumors, with the absence of any more vessels from the city state. Indeed, aside from the sentries that had permitted their arrival, and now flanked their progress through the dim lit streets, there was nobody in the dank streets. Few houses were even lit by fireplace, as lights flickered gloomily from only the occasional window, and for the most part, the town was silent. Silent and clogged with the stench of undrained sewage. Whatever had happened here, Anna thought grimly, the once great hub of trade in the West had truly fallen from grace.

The guards at the keep were hardly as welcoming as their counterparts at the gate and, with some apprehension, Henrik proceeded to hand over the royal seal once again. Well, to indeed call it a royal seal was guilty of a crime, in that, with Elsa unconscious, they had been unable to add the sigil of the Queen's authority to the hastily scribbled letter approving Anna's authority to act in her place, considering her seal was not the normal wax. Rather, it was a product of her own magic, and without another Stormcaller over the power of winter to step in, they'd been left with less scrupulous means to accomplish the supposed authority of Arendelle's monarch.

The result was still a near replica, thanks to Plinus' discreet prowess in forgery, but even so, Anna sweated. Coming under Arendelle's colours had given the Duke's men enough thought to toss them into the dungeons. An apparent attempt to impersonate an envoy simply gave them an official excuse.

After a terse few moments of scowled glances at the uncommon sigil, the parchment was finally rolled back up and thrust back into Henrik's chest, before the two sets of wooden doors were allowed to part, admitting an equally hostile bastion to the Guard Firebase they had ventured into only hours ago.

Somehow, Anna realized gloomily, she'd be a fool to expect a friendly reception here.

* * *

'You have quite a nerve to show your face around here,' a snide, familiar voice echoed off the wooden interior of the Castle's equivalent of Arendelle's Great Hall, 'considering the mess we find ourselves in is the doing of your kin.'

It was a reflexive chill that rippled through her spine, as Anna recalled the same voice that had spread the infectious paranoia across the buried city in a matter of minutes after her sister's 'incident', as they referred to it now a days. To think one could so easily give the order to end another's life, based on a simple belief the storm would end with death.

Well, she managed to ponder briefly, as she composed herself for her first real negotiation, at least the Duke wasn't mad enough to take the killing into his own hands, like another sociopath that was quickly, albeit with great difficulty, expelled from Anna's mind.

Truth be told, such was hardly the first deal of haggling she had enacted in her sister's name; with so many relationships needing repair after the revelations of sorcery at the coronation, and Elsa's inability to exist in a dozen places at once, Anna had already traveled on a number of delegations in her kingdom's name, but to believe this to be a straightforward affair would be folly to say the least.

At worst, failure on her part in the past meant a broken trade route that, with Arendelle's existing net of commerce, truly spelled greater issues for the opposing nation. Now though, the price of failure could well mean a war her people could not hope to win.

'Duke Ambrose Cyneric' she started, suppressing the inbuilt hatred that burned deep at her core as best she could, 'a pleasure to meet your acquaintance again.'

Unlike Anna, who gave the slightest curtsy in a common sign of respect, and little else, the Duke was positively fuming at her very presence, as he marched the length of the Hall, flanked by a dozen bodyguards. It was little surprise to find the pair that Elsa had identified as her would-be-killers, were present amongst the company, still as impassioned as the day she'd set eyes upon the pair.

'I wasn't informed you were sailing for Wessleton,' the Duke hissed, nearly accusingly, 'nor was I informed you arrived from the port; that you came from the Northern Road?'

'That is correct, Duke,' Anna replied tersely, for once bothering to recite the story they'd agreed on with Varro to cover the paranoid authority of the city state. Her tendency of letting her thoughts leave her mouth before they were actually considered proved comical at times, as Kristoff had comforted her, but here, it could well spell doom for them, as well as all those on the other side of the sea. 'We landed at Newport, before we took the road South.'

'And I guess there is a reason behind this, deception, hmm?' The last word was spat with venom.

'A precaution,' Kristoff interjected, eyes slit in fury at the disrespect the slight man displayed for the Princess of Arendelle.

'I asked the one fit to answer,' the Duke retaliated softly, 'not a peasant.'

It would have been the equivalent of asking a rock to produce blood; to request the mountain man to refuse being stifled at the insult. Indeed, he had never flaunted the advantages of royalty, choosing a humbled life over one gold could provide, and after all, he was an orphan, in a court of rulers.

However, he would have been foolish to assume his wife would have allowed the slander to go unanswered.

'Brave words for a coward who hides behind others to enact his will.'

There was a ripple of metal on leather, as a set of blades partly left their sheaths.

So much for diplomacy.

'Perhaps I spoke too hastily,' the Duke conceded, though his features gave no trace of any actual regret at his words, 'but these are harsh times upon us all. Now then, perhaps you could share with us the reason for your visit?'

'Oh,' Anna cut back, feigning serenity, 'it's just the matter of why twent eight of your warships are headed for Arendelle.'

* * *

The Duke's jaw simply hit the ground.

_How did they know? _He raged inside, _how had the sorceress and the brat of her sister found out?_

Too late, he realized the moment had been witnessed.

'That is absurd!' He screamed at the top of his lungs, opting for sheer volume of protest over finess, 'I will not court lies in my own home; if you have proof, present it!'

The last words were spat in fury at the small formation. Presenting a calm she certainly did not feel, Anna crossed her arms, and let a grin cross her face.

'We have eyes, Duke,' she muttered as mysteriously as she could, deciding ambiguity would work to her favor, 'and besides; Wessleton houses the largest navy in the Northern sea. Your harbor speaks for itself.'

There was little Cyneric could say to that. The docks of the city, though massive in scope, were in fact empty, save for perhaps three vessels. The ghost town of a port that should have been teeming with military vessels was enough to drop the Duke's deception like a house of cards though, Anna noted with some curiosity and irritation, the Duke refused to admit a direct defeat.

'Ever since you cut trade links with our city,' he hissed, 'Wessleton needed a new means of generating a revenue to run the nation. Don't forget, Princess Anna; it was your sister that plunged my people into a depression.'

'Because you were willing to kill to turn a coin.'

'Gold is what makes our world turn, Princess. Whether you like it or not, it is what keeps us all alive. That is why we enacted what we had to; our ships have been on hire for others seeking protection, whilst lacking a suitable navy to protect their assets on the high seas. We make the waters safe, and receive a cut of the profits in turn: it's the only way we survived.'

Anna was willing to bet there was more to the Duke's tale than met the ear. It was no secret the seas were becoming more and more dangerous as the days wore on, as pirates and criminals toured unprotected trade routes in increasing numbers. With the Duke's plan in place to profit off those unable to protect themselves, it was a fair guess to predict the Duke had 'directed' at least some of the cut throats to the right places. Without anything other than speculation though, Anna was forced to drop the accusation, unvoiced.

'And so now what? You've come to take a torch to my home?'

'Occasionally, a client state may ask for, military aid in exchange for financial concessions. I don't ask what they're doing, I get my ships back in one piece, and the world keeps spinning. If the ships we loaned out are headed for Arendelle, you can look for the client; the ships and their crews are only answerable to their employers alone for the course of the contract.'

'You greedy son of a...' Henrik got no further, before he found a blade beneath his throat, cutting off the curse.

'Your crews still answer to you,' Anna insisted, trying to ease the tension, before the burly bodyguard at the Duke's side could push the sharpened edge into flesh, 'send word to them; it's not too late.'

'How could I do so?' Cyneric scoffed, drawing Anna's brows together, contort with fury, 'I couldn't reach them in time, even if I wanted to.'

'You go through with this,' Kristoff snarled, 'and it'll be an act of war.'

'Not much of a war,' the Duke muttered, 'as far as I can see, you won't last a day. You see, Anna, when you play with fire, you make enemies. I don't know what your sister's been doing, but her time on the throne is over. Her demons won't protect her forever. Not while they kill my people.'

Too late, Anna realized someone had already beaten them to the accusation of harboring the forces of the damned. Coupled with his existing fear and paranoia of forces he could not understand, the Duke would almost certainly be assured he was acting in the right to end the threat, even if it meant wiping out those who were trying to contain it.

'You don't understand,' she began, 'Elsa had nothing to do with...'

'Send my regards to the witch,' Cyneric cut her off, a zealous pride hidden in his glowering eyes, 'if she's still alive when you get back. Guards.'

There was a sharp stamp of feet, as the assembled men threw themselves upright, into the rigid structure akin to a fortress wall, rather than a line of men.

'Get them out of my keep. And if they give you any trouble, you can send them back to the witch a piece at a time.'

The second the words left his mouth, everything changed, very quickly. A hiss of steel resounded in her head, as blades left scabeths, only for it to be followed in rapid fashion with the strange clatter of iron ricocheting off the ground, as a weapon, or rather weapons, hit the ground, rebounding several times before coming to a stop, as their owners were sent reeling backward into the floor. At the apparent snap of a finger, one guard had simply gone beserk, hammering his sword's pommel into the face of the man at his flank, whilst an elbow broke the nose of his left hand partner.

Shocked at the sudden betrayal, it took a moment for the rest of the Duke's escort to even realize what was happening. It was only the matter of a split second, but by the time the first sword stroke fell upon the traitor, five men were already sprawled across the floor.

The downward strike simply cut through thin air, as the mad man slipped to the side, and promptly slammed a boot backwards, instinct guiding the savage strike straight into his aggressor's groin. At the same time, the remaining men leapt into the fray. With four swords swinging in at the same time at varying angles, there was no way the assassin could survive.

Well, that was if one excluded the fact that their opponent had legs. Before it had even landed it's outstretched lower limb, the traitor had pivoted about to face his opponents on a single limb, before the extended one flicked out again. The strike cracked noisily against a flanking man's wrist, dropping the blade with the crack of bone. At the same time, the berserker's free hand flew out wards in a single, fluid fashion toward the other man who threatened to encircle him, this time from the left. A blade that had not previously existed on his person seemingly materialized as it left his hands, and promptly pinned itself through the swordsman's right hand in mid strike. There was a holler of agony, and the rattle of another blade hitting the ground. In the same moment, the single blade drawn in the traitor's right hand was raised until the blade was held vertically, tip pointed to the ground, to greet the closest of the surviving blades. Then with an ominous strength, it simply flicked it's wrist, swinging the two locked blades in an arch across his body, catching the second sword aimed for his chest, before he had pulled it back to the blade's original, downward facing stance, albeit at a slightly lower elevation, with two blades now locked against it's edge, each on the opposing side of the blade from his body. Their own hands twisted and knotted in the sudden one hundred and eighty turn, the two inept guardsmen had barely enough time to realize their predicament, before a fist laid them both out on the ground.

Only pausing to hammer a fist into the skull of the bleeding guard, sending him into an uninterrupted slumber, the man turned upon the Duke, and the small company of Arendelle beyond him.

As his gait slowed though, something that could only be described as sorcery claimed the man. There wasn't another word to it; the mortal man, in the blood red jacket of Wessleton, simply faded away, like a morning mist dispelled by the slightest breeze, only to reveal a monster beneath. A hooded, armored figure covered in head to toe in plated carapace, with the only red remaining in it's appearance being the two slanted lenses at it's eyes. In fact, the creature appeared to grow from where it's host had previously existed; where the betrayer had only stood at maybe five and a half feet, this thing easily reached seven. All the while, a large rolling mass of darkness seemed to materialize at it's back, until it's fluttered movements finally revealed it's fabric nature; a cloak of the night.

'We aren't going anywhere, Cyneric,' Varro growled.

* * *

There wasn't much of a reply from the petrified aristocrat, as the Battlemaster deactivated the holo-cloak that had previously shielded his infiltration, at least, until a sharpened edge was beneath his collared neck.

'You address those that are trying to combat the threat, Duke,' the shadow hissed, uncompromisingly, 'And your ploy to end this madness will only play into our foes' hands.'

'You're a...' If there were anymore words, they were lost amongst the stutters, and the gentlest press of steel against flesh.

'...monster, yes,' Varro admitted without a trace of uncertainty, 'and yes, I am not your shining knight at the break of dawn, because those who fight in the light cannot defeat those in the dark.'

As the words left his mouth, a fist snapped upwards, straight into the Duke's mouth, sending him sprawling backward into an unconscious sprawl of limbs.

'After what you told me about him,' Varro muttered toward the small group of standing personnel from Arendelle, 'I had doubts if anyone could turn him back, so we're going for the next best thing.'

'What?' Anna asked bewildered, 'you just declared war on Wessleton!'

'Nah,' Varro consoled her, as he pried the Duke's signet ring from his finger, 'we're just bypassing authority.'

* * *

Duke Ambrose Cyneric was furious.

There wasn't another word for it, as he rubbed his bruised jaw, trying to alleviate the pain that hammered in his head.

'I don't care if you have to burn down the city!' He tried to roar at his aide,but, with a swollen jaw, most of it simply came out as an incoherent splutter of rage. 'Find them!'

Trembling, the man bowed his acknowledgement, before he took flight, unwilling to be on the receiving side of the Duke's wrath, leaving Cyneric alone, as he mumbled his loathing for the sorceress across the sea.

Well, he mused, if what the Princess had spoken was true, and his client was using his unmarked ships to wage war on Arendelle, it was only fitting that his old foe was ended, with a coin in his purse nonetheless.

Such a thought almost made being struck in the face worthwhile.

Almost.

Amid his rolling thoughts, he never heard the door creak open again, at least until the stumbling aide announced his intentions at a far faster rate than necessary, probably still intent on getting out of the direct line of fire from the Duke's explosive fury.

'Your grace, the final payment is here.'

'You can show yourself out,' the Duke hissed, 'now.'

'My lord,' the man stuttered, clearly cursing his misfortune at being placed under the unpredictable noble, 'his eminence himself is...'

'Get searching for that blasted band of mongrels,' he spat, rounding upon the quavering aide, 'or I'll have you swinging from the gallows beside them, if there's anything left of them! I might as well just line them up in the bay for target practice, and you can join them too if you don't get out of my face!'

Sensing distance was his best hope for survival, the poor man was sent scarpering off into the bowels of the castle, hoping to find some duty to attend to that would find some fast redemption in the duke's eyes. That was, if he didn't run through the doors, and nearly smash head long into the man he was meant to be introducing.

'Whoever in the blazes you think you are,' Cyneric began, already preparing to vent his frustration at the new unfortunate, 'you can show yourself out; I've got a band of psychopaths somewhere in the city, and...'

'Perhaps you'd benefit from some assistance, then?' The familiar voice offered. 'You don't look too good yourself.'

Cyneric was on the verge of drawing the blade at his hip, when he realized the newcomer's hand was already gripping the golden sword hilt tucked away at the edge of a sheath, though, Cyneric knew it not to be in fact gold; a long time with the substance had given him enough experience to realize it was only the thinnest veneer of the rare material that, while obviously valuable, fell short in it's use in battle. He'd once contemplated even commissioning a golden blade, but he'd quickly been advised against it, due to the metal's suitably weak nature.

Thankfully, the blade was hardly drawn in threat; rather, it was an act of readiness, as the old hilt was removed to admit shining new steel; a weapon reforged after the untimely demise of it's edge. A hilt clasped in clean, crisp, white gloves.

'As a last act of good will to seal this alliance,' the silk voice continued, behind emerald eyes, 'it would be an honor.'


	11. Old Enemies, Old Problems

_The pen is mightier than the sword. But always keep a rifle on hand for when the pen fails.  
__Common saying in the Shadow Guard_

* * *

Unlike her first awakening, this time, Elsa felt little to no pain in her chest, as she pried her eyes apart. Rather, all she wanted to do was hurl, as the sickening aftertaste of the anesthetics filled her throat, and threatened to turn her insides out, before she fought down the sensation with some effort.

'Back from the dead already?' a somewhat familiar voice sounded off in her head. Well, familiar in the aspect it was the universal filtered voice of a Guardsman; she actually had no real means of identifying the dark silhouette that momentarily blocked her vision of the fluorescent lights that hung above her head, as it finished it's administrations.

'Alright Elsa,' it said chattily, 'time for a walk.'

'I thought...'

'Wrong,' the shadow finished for her, 'Thank the Great Father for modern medicine, eh?'

Elsa didn't quite know what to think of that statement. It just didn't fit; there was no need for those words, unless it was trying to mislead her as to what had just occurred in her unconscious state. The truth, though, would have to wait, as the red eyed figure disappeared from sight, only for it's voice to return to her ears a moment later.

'Give me a moment; switching you back on. This might hurt a bit...'

Having heard the phrase enough around the Guard to know it was likely the understatement of the century, Elsa bit deep into her lower lip, bracing herself for what was about to come.

Such preparation was still gravely inadequate for the sensation that followed. Indeed, it could only be likened to the entirety of her entire lower body being set alight in the same fire produced by the monstrous Wyvern, except one that burned in every single nerve that lined her legs, her chest...

Someone might as well have cut her in half at the torso, sown it back on, and then severed it again just for good measure, all in the matter of a single moment, while she was fully conscious.

'Okay,' the sadistic healer admitted, 'maybe a lot.'

Elsa fainted.

* * *

'You know, most people react with gladness at being able to walk again; not taking a snooze.'

Trying to ignore the unsympathetic quips of the Guardsman, Elsa swung her legs off the table, still attempting to come to terms with what had just happened. The feeling in her legs were returned like a miracle had just weaved it's work.

After a long rest of silently trying to accept her paralysis, having that proven wrong upon moments of coming back to consciousness was almost too much to handle, and the overjoyed Queen promptly landed upon her two feet, before she nearly hit the ground.

An iron grip was enough to arrest her fall, although, given the gauntleted hand belonged to her uncaring surgeon, Elsa was fairly certain a greeting with the hard concrete would have been preferable to the continuous stream of sarcasm.

'Okay,' she cut him off, 'what did you do to me?'

'Um...' a pause with a Guardsman who otherwise did not know when to shut up? That could only mean trouble.

'Call it remotorization of a paralyzed area,' a new voice interjected, spinning Elsa's head toward the medical bay's entrance, to spot a new Guardsman. Unlike Terinius, this one's armor was completely matted black, lacking any of the red stains the healer had painted across his suit...

She quickly realized the Guardsman who had watched over her recovery was painted as if it had just partaken in a bloodbath, and it didn't take a great deal of connection to attach the colour of red to her own blood...

With the volume that coated the stalwart Guardsman from head to toe, Elsa was quite surprised she did not hit the bed again. Evidently though, the moment of realization must have flashed across her face, as the newcomer moved forward.

'It's alright,' it quickly amended, 'you're fine; we replaced the blood, and you won't be confined to a bed for the rest of your life.'

'But how...'

'People tend to bleed when they're stabbed in close proximity to the heart, Elsa, but rest assured; you'll live.'

As if on cue, the massive, and blood stained Guardsman, slammed a fist to his chest, and departed hurriedly, leaving the Queen with the new black cloak.

'Alus Victus,' it quickly introduced itself, 'we may have met over the comms earlier.'

'Queen Elsa of Arendelle,' Elsa instinctively replied, before she realized there was still one more thing nagging her mind. Well, she quickly amended, one rather important notion amongst a thousand questions. 'Do you know where my sister is? I should see...'

'Princess Anna is not present as of now,' Victus admitted, before he gestured with an open hand to walk as they talked. Having just had motor function restored, such was easier said than done in Elsa's case. 'Four hours ago, maybe ten minutes before you last saw your sister, we picked up a fleet of twenty eight ships from your old friend Cyneric, headed straight for us.'

'Cyneric?' There was a moment of confusion, as Elsa wracked her head for the name amid memory, before she quickly regretted the find. 'What did he do?'

'As I said, deploy an invasion force of twenty eight ships.'

'What?!'

'Same reaction from your sister,' the Fieldmaster noted aloud, before he continued, 'anyway, she didn't know any reason for the transgression in recent years, and Varro suspects it's Foresh's work. So he left with Anna and Kristoff probably three and a half hours past; they're headed to Wesselton: see if we can find something.'

'Anna's going to Wesselton?' Elsa could only imagine the damage that would ensue. While Anna had headed a number of diplomatic missions in the past, she was well known for being straightforward, something that couldn't exactly bode well with someone with a track record for sanctioning murder. 'That can't go well.'

'Well,' Victus replied, half amused, 'it seemed the better option than sending you, and Varro's no diplomat, as you may have found, so we make do.'

There wasn't much Elsa could say in answer to that. Even without her relatively bed ridden state barely hours ago, it would have been easy for things to go astray with her present in the Duke's quarters. Old grudges, and potentially lethal powers tied to emotions, did not bode well together, and it had taken an enormous amount of restraint to send Kai down to the docks rather than to deliver her judgement on the paranoid idiot personally, lest she have simply restarted their entire issue of winter. And now that the black cloak had mentioned it, the Battlemaster who had chosen to start diplomatic relations by two counts of attempted murder, did not exactly spark aptitude in politics.

'Wait,' Elsa interrupted, 'Varro went with them?'

'Yes, along with five Guardsmen from Legion.'

Varro went with them. The impulsive Battlemaster, who would most likely stick a knife in the Duke on first glance of his fairly toxic personality, would be in the same presence as Anna when he managed to rile Duke up, most likely by force. And the same one that would most likely be chased out of the city with at least a hundred guards intending grievous physical harm, right on his tail.

And the same one that would be right next to Anna when it all transpired.

'He's going to get them killed!' Frankly, Victus had to admit, the Queen couldn't have phrased it any better, but it was in his duty to make sure Varro wasn't going to get hammered in the face by another bolt of ice upon his return.

'They'll be fine,' Victus soothed, with a confidence he certainly did not feel, 'Varro's smart enough to avoid pissing off a whole city again.'

* * *

'This was a really bad idea.'

'And I thought you were the optimist,' Varro snapped back at Anna, as he pelted at full gait along the pier, herding the humans along, before he managed a glance over his shoulder to witness a sizable detachment of guards charging after the small company, their crossbows hefted to attention, as they prepared to fire.

Unthinkingly, he rounded about, letting loose a dozen rounds from the hellfire pistol, ripping apart the wooden boards underfoot, either deterring a head on pursuit, or dropping a few unlucky souls into the frigid water below.

Sadly, such was only enough to give a second's pause in the surviving brutes. The men Cyneric surrounded himself with closest weren't usually the greatest brothers in arms; their eyes on their next payment rather than watching the man at their side, and it was only the shock of watching the cloaked warrior let fire spew from his hands at such a fast rate that gave the small team enough time to round the next corner, placing the stern of another vessel between themselves and the incoming iron bolts.

With all those bearing witness to the brawl in the Castle in the depths of unconsciousness, it had been a fairly easy matter of marching out, and with their loathing for their foreign counterparts, the men of Wesselton had never bothered to notice the fact that the Arendelle formation had grown by one man, and fewer even thought to address the uncanny similarity, or rather identical nature, between the newcomer and the third man in the squad as they marched into the streets.

That was, until someone with enough wits to check on the Great Hall had set off the alarm.

A ring of a bell later, and the seven of them had been sent sprinting for their lives, with both professional soldiers, and an assorted lynch mob on their heels, after the city's fall from grace in the wake of the Winter incident.

'Why are we even heading into the docks?' Kristoff demanded between jolted breaths, 'they're going to surround us!'

'Gates are already barred,' Varro replied grimly, turning back to spray off another non lethal burst, 'which leaves the waterfront, and we can't be showing up to deliver 'The Duke's new orders' in a flying metal bird, can we?'

_So that's what they are_, Kristoff realized, as he eyed the scroll of parchment that was bundled lightly into the Battlemaster's free hand. With everything already set in place by Plinus, except for an exact replica of the Duke's seal, since no documents addressed from the present Duke Ambrose Cyneric actually residing within Arendelle's walls long enough for official recording before they were introduced to the fjord, the last step of the elaborate deception had been committed right in the heart of the city, with the signet ring of the Duke himself, amid his slumber. Presuming they could get to the fleet in time, they could well be fooled into thinking they were carrying the Duke's orders to side with their old foes.

Well, Kristoff quickly amended, that was presuming they actually left the city alive, as the hundredth bolt darted over his head; the furious men at his back still howling for their blood.

'Got transport?' Varro hissed back down the comm line, 'we're going to be running it a bit tight.'

'That depends,' the unsettling reply came, 'do you mean something with the potential to get us out of here, or do you mean something we can actually work? Because right now, it's the former.'

Rounding one more corner, Varro was met by a sight that nearly made him leap from his skin, although, if it was in rage, or absolute shock, he did not know.

Tarus was out on the middle of the narrow pier, gesturing wildly for an accelerated rate of movement, toward what appeared to Varro as the largest ship in the entire harbour, with what he presumed to be Ignus waving from it's aft deck.

'You preening idiots!' he screamed, 'We need something that we can use to get out of this hell hole! Not a Titan!'

'Apparently, it's the fastest ship in the fleet,' Tarus replied freely, 'the Albatross; could catch up with the invasion force.'

'If we don't get blown to piece meat getting out of here,' Varro seethed, 'do you even know how to get this thing moving?'

* * *

'Don't look at me,' Anna quickly replied, eager for the nearly hostile Battlemaster's gaze to be directed elsewhere, 'first time I saw a ship up close, I nearly got flattened. And the first time I was actually on one, I 'died'.'

'I wasn't looking for excuses,' Varro groaned, swiveling his piercing eyes onto Kristoff. Not surprisingly, he wasn't met with a great deal of direct eye contact.

'As I said, my forte is ice,' he muttered absentmindedly, 'not ships.'

'What about the captain?' Anna asked, turning to a guilty Tarus, 'he would know, and ship crews usually sleep on their vessels right?'

'That would be if they were conscious right now.'

'Well perfect,' Varro hissed, 'now we just have to wait until they wheel some artillery up to blow us all out of the water...'

'Well, actually,' Henrik piped up, spinning the fuming Battlemaster around, 'my dad was a sailor; we could try kedging.'

'Well I ain't a sailor, lad,' the irate Guardsman spat, 'so what the hell is kegging?'

'Kedging,' the young man politely corrected him, already nervous at the prospect Varro was reaching for a blade, although, that was probably something to do with the fact the mob was getting closer, now aware the shadows weren't waiting for them at every corner. 'We basically row a smaller ship out, drop an anchor attached to the main ship, and then pull on the rope from the Albatross; we'll tow ourselves out.'

'And by that time,' Varro finished, 'we'll be dead.'

'Well...' Tarus added carefully, with a grin all to evident under the helmet, 'I wouldn't be too worried about arty. Just the pitchforks coming up the pier. And that kedging thing; couldn't hurt to simplify it a little, could it? We just need a tow.'

* * *

Their footsteps rattled off the cobbled streets as they raced for their posts; a sea of red that seemed to flood the narrowed alleys that flanked the city's harbor. Unlike Elsa, who had seen it fit to maintain a more peaceful outlook on politics, Cyneric had never found oddity in maintaining a sizable garrison. Even with his entire army on the water, Wesselton still had a formidable row upon row of defenses that watched over it's waterways, namely, four batteries of heavy cannons that would easily lay waste to any vessel that was mad enough to sail into the port without good reason.

Or one that attempted to leave.

Well drilled as they were though, nothing covered in years of military practice could have prepared the gunners for the sight that met them upon reaching the mighty guns.

Although the numerous unconscious bodies strewn across their iron forms was to be expected, with a hostile infiltration of their city, the surprise was universal when the sponge was prepared to be pressed down the cannon's width, only to hit solid bedrock barely an inch in.

Disbelief, frustration and complete and utter chaos was all that could reign on the once mighty defense batteries of the city; each cannon seemingly sealed by unknown sorcery, or so it would seem to anyone without an idea of welding, and the concept of using a hot cutter to seal a convenience cannonball inside each gun's barrel, prohibiting great use without detonating the cannon itself, as a group of rather zealous gunners quickly discovered amid a rain of fire and hot metal.

* * *

'We've got them now!' Hans snarled, as he charged at the head of the column he guided along the narrow side streets of the ancient city; a white, ceremonial coat amid a sea of scarlet uniforms. There were fifty of them; a platoon of the South's finest sharpshooters, and a true force to be reckoned with. Commissioned by High King Torben barely two years ago, the South's Legionaire cohort was certainly the pinnacle of organised warfare to date. With each man fully armed to the teeth with a long rifle, capable of sniping a priority target across an open field, and a pair of secondary rifles strapped to their backs to allow for rapid firing without the need to reload after every shot, Hans could almost pity anyone who was about to fall into their sights.

Almost. After what he'd endured in that blasted city, the last thing on his mind was mercy right now.

His feet hit the wooden pier, and with a rousing shout, his men surged onward.

_Lead from the front_, he repeated in his head, remembering his distant father's lessons, _lead by fear and you will only construct your downfall. But inspire, and your men will perform miracles._

There were others already there, hollering in fear, or cowering behind fallen pieces of debris, praying for some deity to deliver them from the shadows.

Stooping to haul a sinking man back onto stable ground, as he gestured for two of his men to advance in his place, Hans did not see the shadows cast by the moored vessels come to life, and engulf his lead men. By the time he'd looked back up, one was on the ground, unconcious or dead, he did not know, while the other was held with an arm poised around his throat, ready to break the fragile bones that composed his neck.

In the spectre's other hand, it hefted a short, cut down pistol, aimed straight for the prince.

'Come any further,' a cold voice cut over the rumble of fearful muttering, 'and I'll promise you the peace death offers. Any who turn back now will not be...'

Varro didn't get another word in before he was forced to sidestep a crossbow bolt aimed for his eyes. Whoever the high ranking officer on the deck was, he realized, as he tightened his grip on the unfortunate neck that was nestled at his chest level, the man certainly knew his way around bows. A few seconds later, and the Battlemaster was diving into the water as the airspace over him was quickly filled with more metallic spines than a hedgehog could ever possess, as his shield collapsed to the ground amid an unconscious fuge, leaving the Battlemaster to fend for himself.

Filled with confidence at the Shadow's retreat, Hans stepped forward, rousing his men onward, as they continued to fill the air with a barrage of accurate musket fire, until the auburn haired man at their spearhead keeled over, a steel dart in his back.

As the air came alive with the oversized pins, the hiss of their movement drowning out even the Prince's drawn out cry of agony, it was only instinctive that each person would have immediately abandoned the pursuit in preference to survival, and as one, the crowd scattered, with both soldiers and civilians hugging the relative cover on the exposed docks. Even as they did so, the mysterious curse seemed to strike down many more, dropping three men before they could move another meter, and even once they were in the 'safety' provided by an intervening boat, the marksmen did not halt, picking off men one at a time at a stunning rate, forcing heads closer to the deck, and shots to be fired with far less frequency, and accuracy.

Amid the confusion, few ever stopped to question if their hunter was indeed firing from the moored vessel, and not the hills at their very backs.

* * *

Those words were cursed.

There was no doubt, Anna decided; anyone who let slip the all too familiar phrase of 'you'll be fine' to her sister would undoubtedly meet some unpleasant misfortune in the near future after the words departed their mouth, as she tried to hug the ground, denying the flying projectiles of a target to impale. Making a mental note to avoid the curse in the future, if they somehow survived another day, Anna turned her attention back to the two drop lines Varro had dumped in her lap, and requested her aid in locking the two ropes together, in preparation for Tullius' rather blatant operation of towing the Albatross out of port by Omen.

Maybe this was what it was like, Anna briefly considered, as the trillionth bolt, or musket fired ball, whizzed over her skull; what Elsa must have felt when the Duke's men came for her. To know there were people trying to actively end your life, and there was little you could do about it, except to trust fate.

Well, she thought grimly, snatching a brief gaze over the ship's railing, Elsa certainly did not have this many people coming for her head; the roaring fury of the crowd was terrifying to say the least; an overwhelming force that she had little doubts would easily wipe them off the face of the Earth in the slowest and most painful fashion possible. If she'd ever envied Elsa, it would have been now. Facing well over a hundred seriously aggravated citizens and soldiers, and without the ability to call upon a wall of ice that could by another minute? This was clearly somebody's sick joke at twisting fate, dictating the sister with the actual capability to defeat such a threat, ending up on a sick bed on the other side of the ocean, and dropping the normal one into the midst of a riot.

If the black cloaks shared her sentiments though, they certainly gave no sign of it, as Tarus and Ignus continued to let a steady stream of firepower rain down upon the docks below, pinning down their foes, while the unseen Girius continued to put rounds downrange from an overlook somewhere above the town.

Fumbling with the infuriating design of the catch, Anna finally managed to pry the metallic seal of the drop line open, and, with a weakening grip against the surprisingly furious force within the clamp, in it's attempts to return to it's closed state, she placed it over the short length of the steel line Kristoff held, before she could let go at last. With an audible snap, the mouth like design slammed shut, narrowly missing a finger in the process.

_There is no way that could break_, she reasoned, tugging the two steel ropes in opposing directions, to little avail. Heck, it erased any doubts of the deceptively thin wires being able to tow the monstrous mass of wood and steel out of port, while under fire.

Another shot over her head, though, brought her back to more pressing matters, as the bolt clattered noisily off a nearby cannon, missing her head by inches.

'You done?' Tarus demanded.

'I guess,' Anna began, before the joined cords were ripped from her grasp by a steel grip.

'Get down to the lower deck,' the Guardsman instructed, 'and try not to get shot.'

She wasn't entirely sure if it was she who grabbed Kristoff, or if he grabbed her, but regardless of the initiator, the pair raced down the deck as one, ducked over, trying to avoid getting turned into a pincushion as the unaimed shots continued to fall from the sky. Though they were hardly accurate, with no man daring to stick his head into the open with Girius providing overwatch from a nearby mountain, their sheer volume made up for it, as metal clattered off wood and iron around the pair as they darted for the entryway to the lower decks.

'So much for diplomacy, eh?' some voice enquired in her ears sarcastically, through the comm bead they'd each been issued after the drop. Anna on the other hand, couldn't quite grasp how anyone could be joking at a time like this.

'You are aware people are trying to kill us right now?' she asked, narrowly skidding to a halt as an arrow embedded itself in the wall barely inches before her eyes.

'And you'd know all about dying wouldn't you?' the voice shot back, before it raised itself to a thunderous roar. 'Ignus! Last mag of tranquilizers; suppressors off, and load solid rounds; time to brown a few pants!'

A second later, and Anna nearly leapt from her skin, as the tell tale hiss of the hellfire rifles were suddenly replaced by the equivalent of a lighting storm taking place meters above her head, as each rifle chattered loudly, drowning out even the chipping of wood, as the pier was turned to splinters amidst the renewed volley of firepower.

Unexperienced in facing fully automatic, hand held weapons, the men of Wesselton simply clung to the ground like newborns to a mother. With the close order drills each company had to enact to even conduct a single volley against the heavily armed Guardsmen, and the rate at which the pair were reloading; with one black cloak conducting a stream of fire while the other replaced a spent clip with machine like efficiency, the hundred or so men might as well have been facing twenty times their number of rifles; the accuracy of each Guardsman's shots clearly punctuating their ability to drop any man who attempted to leave cover, let alone stand, ready his aim, shoulder to shoulder with his compatriots while their commander bellowed orders, before sighting a target in the dark and unleashing an unaimed salvo of fire.

The result was the odd musket or crossbow shot over fragile cover in an unaimed fashion, but with the two cloaked gun men proving elusive in the dark, Anna and Kristoff were proving easier targets to sight in the dim light, resulting in a torrent of munitions being poured on their position, as they hugged the few barrels strewn across the deck in an attempt to live another day.

'Combined suppression on three!' Varro's voice hollered over the comms, nearly deafening Anna to the unexpected shout, 'Anna, Kristoff; when we hit three, you run like hell!'

Anna didn't get much of a reply off before another bolt struck the barrel, quivering back and forth with it's hard impact against the solid wood.

It was easy to imagine the bolt punching through skin as easily as it sunk deep into the wooded frame.

'One.'

Her eyes met with Kristoff's, and the same thought was evident across both of their eyes.

_This is suicide._

'Two.'

Her pupils were ripped back to the black cloaks. It occurred to her that their previous rain of death had abruptly come to a halt, as the Guardsmen changed out the hollow magazines from their stocky rifles.

'Three; Move!'

As one, the two shadows aboard the ship, and presumably the Battlemaster, somewhere on the pier below, darted into the open, gunfire rippling from all three hollow tubes simultaneously.

Unanimously, the hail of fire directed at the Albatross came to a halt.

Anna had never run as fast as she did upon the Albatross in her life. Not even when they were pursued by the furious bodyguard Olaf had fondly nicknamed Marshmallow; this time, all it took was one pause, and they'd be dead within seconds.

She hurled herself down the entryway with seconds to spare, just as the torrential downpour of missiles resumed, albeit, at a gravely reduced rate. She had at least a half dozen splinters in her hands with the hard impact against the lower deck of the ship, but even with the thin streaks of blood lining her palm, they were a bare nuisance to Anna, rather than an impediment as her heart hammered against her ribs.

'Still breathing, I see,' someone commented over the static, nearly amused, 'now head for the bow of the ship.'

'What's the bow?!' Anna demanded, still trying to replace some of the air that had been driven from her lungs in the impact with the ground.

'Forward section,' the voice chirped, 'be there in thirty seconds; time's running out.'

Accepting Kristoff's hand, Anna pulled herself upwards, before the pair pelted onward along the lower deck. Even with the thick timbers that provided some protection from the resumed downpour of firepower, the constant rattle of projectiles impacting with the hull of the vessel certainly offered little comfort. It was easy to imagine one of the hundreds of sharpened objects punching through the wall with the same ease the Shadow Guards' rounds were doing so.

Tarus was already waiting for them, albeit, in the most unexpected location Anna would have expected to find the black cloak; hanging out of the hole in the bow's side, perched precariously with both feet on the anchor's chain, as he leaned out the port side, blazing another clip at the foe.

'Get the drop lines secured together,' he instructed curtly, gesturing with his free hand at the two unattached ends that ran like vipers across the gallery's floor; each flowing out of one of hatches meant for releasing a ship's only form of halting locomotion, 'Hurry it up; they're running out of cover for us to shoot, and if we keep missing shots intentionally, they're going to know something's up. Even so, I don't want to start sending idiots to pollute the Great Father's halls, so move it.'

With that, he was gone, dropping into the bay below, as the clash of steel on steel rang throughout the docks, as Henrik's detachment, under Varro's direction, burst from an alleyway they had taken cover in, emerging on the flank of the beleaguered and pinned mob.

There wasn't much of a comment from Kristoff as she let a curse escape her lips, as they wrestled with the infuriating clip system of the drop lines yet again. The splinters in her hands did little favors, but after a final tug, the metal jaws snapped shut, locking the two steel lines as one.

'Done!' she shouted over the firefight, and in an instant, she and Kristoff were both thrown off their feet, as the ship went from stable to full speed in a blink of an eye. Although, maybe that had something to do with the two lines becoming taught in a split second, jamming upwards until it was an iron bar that spanned the width of the ship, stretching from each of the ship's anchor holes. Considering the fact that both openings were at waist height, and the pair had both been standing over the previously loose cabling, the sudden upward movement in the line was enough to trip both Anna and Kristoff in a tumbling heap, as the ship shot forward like an arrow.

The sight that met the Duke was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

Off to his right, at least a dozen voices were screaming as an inferno threatened to consume a black powder store near the defense guns that, for some obscene reason, were not currently blazing their fury at the docks.

Down to his left, a rolling sea of bodies were milling about in panic, as bodies were pulled from the docks, and doctors were attempting to deal with the wounded from the rather disastrous pursuit.

And right down the middle, his pride and joy; the Albatross; a vessel he had christened himself, was shooting out of port like it was caught in an invisible, without it's sails down.

It was then that he saw the massive steel bird that occupied the space maybe a dozen meters ahead of the mighty vessel.

Though, in the dark, he could not see the thin drop lines that anchored Tullius' Omen to the Albatross, the intentions of the boarders was still fairly clear, as they glided onward in the wake of their towing beast, into open waters.

Desperate to salvage something from the disaster, Cyneric's eyes were torn to the last two vessels in his port. Though they were hardly Men of War, the two brigs were fast; easily capable of outrunning the Albatross over the short distance, and between them, they had enough cannons to sink the runaway vessel.

A last gift from Tarus and Ignus quickly sank those hopes though, as two plumes of smoke abruptly rose from the backsides of the both ships; the only indication of the detonation of two accurately placed charges beside the rudders of the only vessels capable of a pursuit.

With all their guns along their flanks, the two brigs were practically useless, only capable of watching as their brethren steamed off to open water, the fluttering lion atop it's mast cast off by a single sword stroke, until it hit the murky water, and descended to the depths of the sea.

* * *

'He ain't looking too happy,' Varro noted absent mindedly, as he passed a spyglass that had already been used as a club by Ignus amid the boarding of the Albatross, to Anna. Curiously, she took the offered instrument, before a pain shot through her hand, and she realized she'd used her splintered palm. Awkwardly, she replaced her grip on the telescope and held it to her eye, already knowing what Varro was referring to.

'He never actually did look positive,' she noted, taking in the fuming character that occupied the castle's balcony, as she passed it along to Kristoff. 'Not a day in his life.'

'Even before the winter?'

'If he did, it was a forced appearance,' she clarified, hopping down from the ship's stern. Even though the Guardsman had already assured her that they were well out of range, it still seemed to be tempting luck, to stay out in the open while the enemy was still in visual range, and possessed ranged weapons such as cannons.

It was the act of moving ever so slightly downwards that she avoided the lighting bolt that nearly took Kristoff's head clean off from his shoulders, as a dark shade passed over the stern railing in a glide, clipping the mountain man's forehead and sending both him, and the significantly taller Battlemaster, into the hard, wooden deck.

Alerted by Kristoff' shout of surprise, she spun around to find the dark shape roll down the deck at least a dozen meters, before it hit it's feet in the same fluid motion, and rise up like a ghoul emerging from it's barrows. Immediately, her good hand went for the short blade at her side, only for a gauntleted hand on her shoulder to halt the action.

'Cutting it a bit fine, Girius?'

'Sorry about that, Varro,' the newcomer apologized, with the same lack of seriousness in it's tone as the Battlemaster carried at the prospect of nearly carrying two counts of decapitation, 'wind was against me, and I lost some height a bit too early.'

At the words the iron structure across the Guardsman's back folded back in; the fabric between each limb gone in seconds, although, from a new perspective, Anna could actually see that the wing suit was not actually set between each arm and leg of the Guardsman, rather, it was set upon on four metal rods that folded out on their own accord across the Guardsman's back, as if he had suddenly grown four new limbs that were welded along his spinal cord.

Her inquisitive nature though, was cut short short by the jolt of pain that coursed through her arm again, as the spyglass, released from Kristoff's grip upon the impact between carapace and scalp at high speed, rolled along the deck and off the ledge she had just descended, dropping squarely into the palm of her hand.

For a moment, she was tempted to hurl the annoyance to a side, but, by reflex, she brought it up to her eyes, and turned back to the port they had just departed.

It wasn't thought that guided the action, it was instinct to use the instrument for what it was designed for.

What she was brought to see though, nearly caused her to let the spy glass drop into the water below.

The red sashed figure was still there, cursing to the heavens, and likely her and all those aboard the Albatross for the humiliating heist, but down on the docks, a man was hauling himself to his feet; a pair of emerald eyes blazing into her own. Emerald eyes beneath auburn hair.

She nearly hit the deck.

* * *

It didn't take a great deal of intuition to deduce something was very wrong. Even for the rather blunt Titulian Battlemaster, with no courses in human psychology, the scream that bypassed Anna's lips was enough to betray the turbulence that raced through her mind.

'What is it?' He demanded curtly, earning a scowl from Kristoff as he raced down to catch Anna, before her teetering steps could take her off the ship.

His eyes following the outstretched hand, Varro snapped his gaze back to the port. Truth be told, he did not actually know what he was searching for, but nonetheless, his eyes blazed back and forth, seeking whatever it was that had nearly dropped Anna in shock.

In the end, he simply opted to hit the mission recorder, for a later analysis.

* * *

Fortunately, Anna's memory was still intact, although, for the Titulian present at least, the words made little sense.

'It was him,' she muttered quietly, to the assembled team that had departed the Omen, 'it was the green eyed, cold hearted, murderer.'

The last word was spat as a curse, though it's effect was somewhat lost on the Guardsmen. After all, if one were to think of things from an anarchist's point of view, they were all guilty of hundreds of murders over their lives, if one counted the harm of any intelligent creature, no matter how corrupt, as a sin.

'Are you sure?' Kristoff asked, bewildered, 'but he's in prison; we received the Southern Court's letter of judgement itself: he can't be loose, it...'

'Sorry to interrupt,' Tarus put in, as perplexed as any of the black cloaks present, 'but I'm pretty sure we're missing some very important details; who in the blazing Storm is Hans, and what exactly did the little midget do?'

Anna wasn't entirely sure on how she was supposed to address that. Hans' involvement in the winter plot was not something she could exactly retell in a few short moments. Plus, the Guardsman's charming description of Hans did not do her many favors. While it was certainly the case that, by the Titulian's standards, Hans; a grown man, would probably stand at the height of one of their children at best, that left her probably in the toddler section.

Still though, the unintended insult was far more preferable to the crimes she was about to retell.

* * *

'So let me get this straight,' Varro mused incredulously, 'the idiot prince of the Southern Isles came to your sister's coronation, and, in the space of maybe less than eight hours, managed to charm you into an engagement...'

'I know,' Anna said through gritted teeth.

'And then proceeded to play the nice guy, even going as far to 'try' and save you and your sister, but in fact only proceeding to try and send the two of you to meet the Great Father, leaving Arendelle without a member of a royal family, and hence making him the regent...'

'Pretty much,' Anna sighed, somewhat amazed as to how the Shadow had summarized the events that had taken her the better part of the evening to tell. Rambling had a way of lengthening storytelling. Even so, accustomed to waiting days or even weeks for a target to walk into a prepared ambush, a tale that lasted until sunrise did not draw too many snores, at least from the black cloaks. The same couldn't be said for the rest of Henrik's company

'Am I right in thinking that by marriage and engagement,' Ignus piped up, 'that you mean the 'forever bound until death do us part', kind of thing?'

'Yes,' Anna replied tersely, sensing the conversation was sinking back into dangerous waters. A quick glare at Kristoff promptly wiped the amused glance on his face.

_I told you_, he seemed to say.

_Shut up_.

'And you thought I was the crazy one,' the Battlemaster muttered, with a sidelong gaze meeting Kristoff's eyes.

'You're certain?' Tarus added unhelpfully. 'I mean, give me a second.'

He hit the side of his helmet several times, sending off a dull series of thuds through eardrums.

'You sure marriage is a life bond?'

'Yes.' The monosyllabic answer should have warned him to curb the conversation there. She might as well have been surrounded by a pack of wolves, each nipping out one at a time.

'Are you sure this thing is translating right?'

'How about you try hitting it a little harder,' Anna suggested, a mischievous glint in her eyes, 'maybe it'll wisen up.'

'Yes maybe,' Ignus put in, a grin all too evident under his helmet, 'with your face; might work.'

He could have let the hounds loose all day, but it was then that Varro decided to finally let Anna off the hook over her, rather disastrous, first impression of true love.

'Sociopaths love to hide under the facade of a gentleman,' he put in thoughtfully. 'You should be a bit more careful in trust, my lady.'

'And I guess you've had plenty of experience in love, wouldn't you?' Anna shot back, exasperated at another session of reminders of her greatest mistake. Unlike his expected reaction though, Varro was visibly rocked at the words, before he mused upon them carefully.

'I wouldn't know,' the Battlemaster sighed. There was a reluctance in his voice that, bypassing even the active comm filters, told those present everything they needed to know.

With that, he withdrew, retiring to the bow of the vessel, leaving Anna and Kristoff to try to digest the contents of what had just come to pass. Hurriedly, Anna began to move forward, an apology already forming in her mouth, when a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

'Leave him be,' Tarus muttered, leaning a head over his own shoulder in quick observation of the lone Battlemaster, 'he knows it wasn't your intent to remind him of his losses; just give him a while.'

'But...' Anna didn't know what to do; leaving the man...Titulian, she corrected herself, to wallow in his painful past seemed quite the opposite of any decent person's doing, particularly after the stinging words had left her own mouth. But the Guardsman was resolute.

'Just leave him for a while,' he instructed. 'And whatever happens, don't remind him of Hesta again.'

* * *

It was another hour before Tarus finally opted to move beside the weathered Titulian upon the bow of the ship.

'You alright, Varro?' he asked softly, careful to avoid raising his voice, though why he did so was beyond him. He simply followed the instinctive course of a lowered audio when comforting a loss.

''I'm fine,' the Battlemaster returned curtly, eyes still riveted, and yet empty and without purpose as they gazed across the ocean.

'I'm not sure if it is in my place to remind you sir,' the Guardsman began warily, 'but when was the last time you took _Queren_?'

There was a short pause.

'Two weeks,' came a mumbled answer, before the black cloak produced a short syringe from one of the many storage pouches upon his side, and promptly slipped it into a small slit in his suit.

'You shouldn't be missing your doses,' Tarus said, 'you're a Battlemaster; you go down, the Fifty Ninth goes down. You need your head on, sir.'

'Thanks for the reminder,' Varro replied with a slight grin, as he let the spent cylinder drop away into the sea. 'Now come on; we have some preparations before we meet the fleet.'

* * *

'So you think he's the client?'

There weren't many other answers she could give, other than a nod. Frankly, Anna was unable to judge the Battlemaster, as he descended down the stairs, with the present company in tow. For an entire hour, he'd simply gazed out onto the horizon, in regret, or remissing the past, she could not tell. And then, after a brief conversation with Tarus, he was practically returned to his state prior to her trigger of the emotional landmine. The Battlemaster's use of a syringe had not gone unnoticed from inquisitive eyes, and she was bursting with questions, but common sense told her to avoid a confrontation as to the sudden change in state of the Titulian's mind after injecting the strange, brown fluid into his body.

'There's not many other options,' she said hurriedly, realizing the Battlemaster was still waiting for a reply, 'but seriously, it makes sense, doesn't it?'

'What, that your old flame is coming back for revenge now, in perfect coincidence with a force of several thousand demons coming down from the mountains?'

That stopped Anna cold in her tracks.

'Are you saying he could be...'

'Well someone is,' the Guardsman finished, 'There are no coincidences. Anyway, one problem at a time. We'll be able to use holo cloaks to shield our approach on the fleet, but since you're here, we'll need someone with authority to back us up. Someone say, the captain of this fine wreck.'

He could have been mistaken for opening the door, though with the Shadow's brute force, and the fragile nature of the wooden frame, the Guardsman might as well have kicked the hinges in, as he led the way into the lower galley, where Tarus and Ignus had unceremoniously dumped the incapacitated crew of the Albatross after the lighting assault on the moored vessel.

The sight that met her was hardly comforting of the Battlemaster's mood. Though she'd been expecting a small crew, with both the Albatross' size and the relative proximity of the docks to the taverns in town, Anna had still expected the fight to still somewhat skewed in the defenders' favor, at least putting up a good fight.

The ugly bruise across the first man's face said it all, as he tried to rise, knuckles raw with fresh blood and splinters, presumably after hammering upon the door for hours on end. To think the Guardsman had simply broken down the iron obstruction with a slight push was enough to send the poor soul scrambling as far back as the room permitted.

'Wait,' Anna said softly, 'you didn't even restrain them?'

'Well,' Tarus admitted without great concern, 'it was either spend time fiddling with knots or saving you lot from being turned inside out.'

There wasn't a great deal that could be placed against that, and besides, Anna conceded, there were other matters taking greater precedence than the Guardsman's lack of caution, such as trying to deal with Varro's non existent diplomacy skills, as he lifted the closest man clean off his feet by the collar.

'I'm going to make things very simple,' he hissed, the carefree persona gone, 'You're going to help us out, and if you don't, I'll find someone who will, while you take a swim. Clear?'

'Um, Varro,' Anna put in gently, sensing where things were going, the events of their first meeting already forming in her mind, 'how about leaving me to it?'

She was met by eyes that she could only assume to be bulging incredulously at the suggestion. Truth be told, from the Titulian's eyes at least, Anna could see where his apprehension was coming from. How could she; a slim built runt with rosy cheeks, compared to the hulking, armored and cloaked Guardsman, terrify an officer of Wesselton into submission.

Thankfully at least, the surge of disbelief quickly gave way to understanding that intimidation wasn't the only path open, although, to think of it, Anna had been fairly surprised at the Guardsman's more lethal approach. It simply did not fit his brazen, nearly arrogant but informative means of convincing the Arendelle court of the threat, after their more fruitful encounter in the wake of the Wyvern's assault.

Now, he'd returned to the means that had nearly killed them in the first place. Grumbling a muted apology under his breath, the Guardsman sauntered about and departed, leaving Anna, Kristoff, and Henrik's guards with the crew of petrified sailors.

She realized they were still unrestrained.

Only halting to take a deep breath and calm herself with a confidence she certainly could not feel, with an outnumbered ratio of four to one stacked against her company, she let fly.

'I know we have had our differences,' she began, eyes unwavering as they met each man's, addressing each soul that could shape the coming future, 'but we are, all of us, at war with a threat greater than any army, any nation, any sorcery we have ever known.'

She didn't know why she threw in the final note. Perhaps it was only natural to assume that her sister would have brought more fear than an armada, but to pause now would only endanger them all.

'We've been blind,' she said quietly, 'to a threat that now seeks to engulf us all, and your Duke has fallen into it's hands.'

'Slander us if you wish,' one man shot. From the looks of his uniform, he was clearly an officer, perhaps even the commander of the hijacked vessel. There was certainly a feeling of pride behind his eyes; a patriotic one that burned despite the corruption that ran behind the aristocrats of his city. 'We know the real threat, Princess Anna.'

'You can fear Elsa if you choose,' Anna offered gently, 'but if you will not fight with her, fight for what you hold dear. Because against what lies to the North, nothing will endure unless we halt it, together.'

'Bandits and brigands,' another soldier spat, although Anna had enough foresight to sidestep the hurled projectile of blood and spittle that erupted from split lips, as the insult fell upon the floorboards alone, 'the only thing to fear in the North is the witch herself.'

'And demons,' a metallic voice answered. The chilling whisper was enough to silence those that stood opposed to the offers Anna had presented, as the doorway filled once again with the titanic black cloak.

'Laugh if you will,' Varro growled, gently placing a hand upon Anna's shoulder to allow himself to pass, although he did not advance closer to their foes than the Princess herself, refusing to assume the commanding post as spokesman for the party of Arendelle. 'I watched these things set worlds alight; put families and innocents to the sword, and leave only slaughterhouses in their wake.'

'Lies,' the captain shot again, turning away in disgust, 'and you'd ask us to join with those who drove us to the brink? You ask us to sacrifice our honor! I spit on you and your offer, you coward! We hide behind no cloak!'

'And I piss on your honor,' Varro hissed. 'I only speak the truth.'

With that, the Guardsman reached for his back, and produced a large satchel that had laid hidden beneath the cloak for the entirety of the long journey. Anna had enough time to realize that black fluid was leaking through the linen that constituted the bag, before the Battlemaster produced it's gruesome contents.

'That is what awaits you in the North,' he warned, eyes fixed on the captain who had dared to voice his opposition to the Shadow, 'death.'

'You may not have realized it,' Anna put in carefully, 'but you're playing your part in the enemy's game perfectly: they're going to turn us on one another until we're divided, and weak.'

'I don't know how long you men have fought for gold over king and country,' she continued, 'If I'm to be completely honest, I don't want to know how long you were mercenaries. But deep down, I think you know that this... is not why you joined the ranks of Wesselton's navy. You joined to serve and protect your country, and protect those you hold dearest.'

She gave a pause to allow the message to sink in. The doubt strewn across their faces was evident; doubt in their once patriotic belief. It had not been a popular move of the Duke's, to turn his forces into an army on hire, in essence, particularly amongst the most senior men in rank, who had served long enough to know that any man's allegiance should be to country and family.

Not the highest bidder. Still, Anna sensed they still needed one final push, before they committed to the dangers of treason.

'I'm giving you the chance to return to that duty.'

* * *

'Well, I can certainly say that was far better than how I would have handled it.'

Anna could only let out a pent up breath in reply to the Battlemaster, as she instinctively grasped the railing of the vessel for support, continuing to gaze out into the deep blue of the ocean. Now that they were well out of earshot from the recently turned sailors of Wesselton, she could finally drop the regal display she'd slowly learnt from both Elsa, and the numerous diplomatic missions she'd had to commit to in her sister's name. While it was certainly useful, it was also draining, and far from her own person.

Or perhaps it was the potential consequences, held in her mind as she talked, that left her sapped after a more formal discussion.

'Well,' Anna finally replied, the aloof facade gone to the wind, 'I guess Elsa's lessons are finally rubbing off...'

'How did you know?'

''scuse me?' The fairly vague question didn't provide much for Anna to go on.

'That they weren't just working for their next payment.'

'Well,' she faltered, 'it was a fair guess. People don't risk their lives for money all the time.'

'What about your friend Cyneric?'

There wasn't much Anna could counter that with. But it had not been a blind call to implore duty into the equation. Although, perhaps not even duty to country, she decided.

'I remembered, when I was on the fjord, three years ago,' Anna mused quietly, though it was still audible for the Guardsman's attuned senses, 'when Hans was about to kill Elsa, I didn't think.'

'Not for the first time,' Varro added lightly.

'Thanks,' Anna quipped, before she craned her head back to eye the Battlemaster, face to face, 'but I guess, in that moment, I realized, if you give people a choice between their own life, and that of a loved one's, well...'

'The choice is certain,' Varro finished for her. Truth be told, he had originally barged in there, intending to galvanise some action by appealing to the soldiers' opportunity for a second chance to survive the apocalypse, but now, placing himself in that situation, he would have never budged. If one sacrificed their country and beliefs for their life, the Guard would have been better off without such cowards. 'But how did you know? How did you know you could trust them to place their people's lives above their loyalties?'

'Sometimes, you need to look for the good in people, Varro.'

Even after everything, Varro mused; a near death caused by none other than her own sister, and a fatal betrayal by a supposed lover, she was still unchanged; trusting, loyal, and unfaltering in her decisions to simply commit to the right.

He could only breath a prayer of thanks that the Fifty Ninth had landed beside Arendelle, of all places. They would need people who were willing to die in the line of battle; people who would not hesitate to take a bullet, or blade, for the warrior at their side.

People who would fearlessly endure whatever trials were thrown at them.

'You're a good person, Anna,' Varro admitted softly, failing to stem the crack in his supposed, granite exterior, 'do not let anything, or whatever is to come, change that.'

'Thanks, I guess,' Anna quickly replied, unsure of where the Battlemaster was taking matters.

'I won't hide matters from you Anna; hell will come for us. The Guard, and any who dare stand with them. If it is your wish...'

'Varro, those things nearly killed my sister. Whatever happens now, Arendelle is a part of it. Even if we stand aside; you said so yourself. They'll come for us sooner or later. You won't be alone.'

The black cloak simply hung on the wind, fluttering gently back and forth across it's bearer's back as the statute continued to stand, resolute in a stony gaze into the rising sun.

'Then, if you are certain about joining a war, Anna,' the Titulian finished, 'let us prepare you, so you may see the world once more upon the end of our conflict.'

'Is that what I think it was?'

'As in it was an offer to earn the Cloak of the Night?' Varro asked, his next words already spilling out from beneath the helm before a reply could be made.

'Yes, it was.'

* * *

**Author's note: Sorry the post is a bit late fellas. Thanks a lot to PascalDragon for all the support you've given me! Means a lot.  
I will not be anywhere with Internet access for the coming week, guys, so next post will likely come over next weekend. Until then, drop a review; any feedback is appreciated**


	12. A Guardsman's Guide to Killing and Dying

**Author's note: Bit of a titanic upload ahead fellas. **

* * *

_It matters not where you come from; what caste, whether rich or poor, whatever your race. Until you earn the right to wear the black cloak, you are all equally worthless.  
__Endrian Plinus, Fifty Ninth Shadow Guard, upon addressing new recruits._

* * *

'Come on,' Plinus roared, 'I haven't got all day.'

'Are you sure?'

'Do I look unsure?'

Frankly, Anna could not tell what lay beneath the Hunter's armor, as she turned the blade in her hands experimentally. Despite it's length, the weapon was remarkably light, barely a feather in her arms, but while it was honed sharply, she had some real doubts as to if the blade could even withstand a hit. Paper didn't tend to fare well against iron.

And then came the very imminent issue of the Blademaster demanding that she lop his head off.

It hadn't been more than four hours after their return from the Wesselton operation, when someone had gone hammering a bell in the Firebase's sleeping quarters, sending her nearly rolling out of the top bunk in sheer panic. Indeed, with the city still being swept for threats, and the potential application of the Behemoth's numerous simulation rooms for training, it had been prudent to allocate the Guard Firebase as the site of the retraining of Arendelle's Royal Guard.

After the rude awakening, it had been an agonizing two hours of hell, as the Blademaster had dragged them on exercise after exercise through the howling blizzard beyond Abaddon's walls.

Now, after resting weary bones over a quick breakfast of a series of foodstuffs that she had been encouraged not to enquire on the contents of, she was now stood upon the training room floor, alongside each member of the cohort that had accompanied the fatally wounded Queen to Firebase.

They'd been given a blade each upon entry, but with it's numerous, molecular serrations on the blade's edge, it had quickly become clear that they weren't being issued with training weapons.

Unless of course, the Guard didn't mind killing some of their trainees in the process, or even their head bladesman, as the Guardsman leading their training stood with a single dagger; barely half the length of the blades the the humans were carrying, locked to his belt; his hands currently empty of any edged objects.

'Hurry up,' he hissed again, 'before I have you idiots one at a time.'

Galvanised somewhat by the thought of facing the swordsman of the Fifty Ninth alone, rather than with maybe a dozen others at their side, there was finally some movement in the cohort, as a sword stroke fell upon the Blademaster.

It simply passed through thin air.

Plinus had simply taken a graceful step backwards, without even bothering to draw a blade in his defense.

'I said take a swing at me,' he roared, 'not at the air!'

Instincts driving on the formation, pushed by both a growing confidence that the Blademaster could handle himself, and an instinctive will to shut up the arrogant Guardsman, the company charged onward.

Against the phalanx of blades, Plinus was forced to give ground. One step, two steps.

And then he stopped, and the blade left it's sheath.

In an instant, Anna simply felt all sensation in her left leg disappear, aside from an overpowering throb of pain, as a boot swung outwards in a round house, and caved her right leg, driving her to the ground.

Having not born witness to the Guard's opening engagement with Arendelle's Guardsmen, the spectacle that followed was frankly shocking, to say the least, as the single Guardsman carved a brutal path through the standing men. Another kick sent a man trying to strike the Titulian's side sprawling backwards, whilst the Guard locked blades with a third soldier. Immediately, the Blademaster's free hand snapped forward in a fist, bypassing the deadly impasse and flattening the man's face, before Plinus sank to the ground, and swept at least another three men off their feet in the same fluid swing of a leg.

The few remaining men fared little better, as the Guardsman blazed forward, the blade hacking from at least a hundred different directions at the survivors, driving them back, before a hand reached out, plucked a stunned guard by the collar, dragged him out of the faltering line, and hurled him backwards, into the heap of writhing bodies.

A bullrush later, and all of the Arendelle cohort was left on the ground, groaning as they tried to rise against bruised limbs.

'You won't have second chances on a battlefield,' the Blademaster hissed, flicking his unbloodied blade back into it's sheath with casual ease, before he stepped back to his original place.

'Again.' He instructed.

* * *

The air was alive with serpents, it seemed.

Though Arendelle had seen it's fair share of wars over the centuries, such had faded over the conversion of the city into a trade port. Such meant fewer wars, with fewer people wanting a conflict that cut into profits that linked nations together.

Unfortunately, it also meant Arendelle's military was a rather ceremonial force of arms, instead of the 'modern' killing machine Varro needed. Indeed, the Battlemaster had nearly hit the roof when he discovered the hallmark ranged armament of the Royal Guards was the crossbow, when there were rifles to be found, though he had softened somewhat upon discovering that by 'rifle', the humans meant a musket that took five seconds for a fully drilled man to load and fire a single round. Coupled with the fact that the standard military procedure with such weapons was to present a firing line of bodies to the enemy, and simply firing by salvo until either side was obliterated, Varro quickly found himself relieved that Arendelle's soldiers were not suitably drilled in the lunatic method of war.

Of course, that did not make the transition from crossbow to fully automatic weapons any easier, as Plinus marched up and down the line, halting on occasion to correct faults in technique amongst the new sharpshooters.

Considering that it was only the first day, it took him the better part of half an hour to reach the end of the static line.

After their first, and second, disastrous attempts to separate the Guardsman's head from his shoulders, Plinus had set the company against each other in a series of drills meant to practice balance, speed, and nimble use of the blades they held in their hands. While such exercises had been completed under the watchful eye of two Guardsmen of the Fifth Company, Plinus had busied himself with refitting the simulation rooms, deciding digital training would have to compensate for their lack of training rounds. Besides, Warden's advanced simulations were enough to impose any environmental conditions he needed; wind, strange weather patterns, down to the extent an enemy was crippled by any specific shot, during combat scenarios.

Though the Guard technology was certainly aiding in the development of the company's skills, it wasn't progressing fast enough for Plinus' liking.

With range finders, they had succeeded in hitting premarked targets, but now that he had introduced moving targets into the equation, without the leniency of providing marked ranges, that newfound accuracy had quickly faded.

'Lead the frigging target!' he roared, 'a demon won't stay put; he'll come for your arse the second he knows you're there, and then you'll be in a world of dead.'

The most common error he was facing was the very fact that the soldiers were actually aware of the necessity to lead the target. At a glance, it would have appeared that it would have aided the Guardsman, if one excluded the fact that crossbows and hellfire rifles tended to spit their projectiles at vastly differing speeds.

The result was a barrage of bullets that continuously blazed the region ahead of the targets, that would only achieve any damage if the creature they were aimed at was somehow able to sprint at sixty kilometers an hour.

And that was with those who actually possessed training with arms.

Previous non combatants, namely Anna and Kristoff, were not exactly living up the sky high expectations of the Blademaster, as their rounds continued to blaze into the horizon, rarely making any impact on the charging individuals.

Truth be told, accuracy wasn't all too often a great issue on the front lines, considering that the numbers of a demon host tended to produce a rolling block of bodies that would have removed any chance of a miss unless one were to aim at the heavens, but when situation degenerated into a chaotic melee, it was paramount that anyone with a rifle was able to hit a moving target amid the brawl, without killing another of their own number.

Right now, he calculated they would have killed more Guardsmen than demons if a real situation had declined to such an extent.

The long wait for some, or rather any improvement continued.

* * *

Anna was petrified.

Her psychological state was hardly differing from any other who had accompanied her into the most recent session of their brutal and uncompromising instructor, as she tugged the black cloak closer to herself, praying to become one with the dark, as Plinus continued his hunt.

In essence, the dozen or so humans who had found themselves as the first detachment from Arendelle to walk in Firebase Abaddon's halls had been locked in a wide room, filled with a small wooden town.

Their task: to survive the Blademaster's unrelenting pursuit through the dark, whilst in turn trying to maneuver behind him in an effort to take him down.

Needless to say, it was proving far easier said than done, particularly with the fact that, prior to entering, they had been stripped of firearms, and were now only left with the cloak, a suit of carapace to prevent too much damage when Plinus finally caught up, a standard length sword, and their wits.

A scream halted in mid sentence somewhere off to her left did little to put her at ease, as someone else fell victim to the darkness.

By now, she wouldn't have been surprised if she was in fact the last human still standing in the dark arena, save for Kristoff, who had chosen to conceal himself in a pile of debris within her sight. Their two positions were facing one another, giving each a clear line of sight over their partner's otherwise unprotected rear angle.

Not that a warning would do much good, Anna thought grimly. Someone had only started screaming for another to get out of the way when both voices faded from her ears.

Whatever lay beneath the carapace, the creature that was Plinus was undoubtedly fast, and dangerous.

She heard something.

A soft kick of dust upon the ground, as someone inadvertently neglected to raise a foot high enough to avoid scraping the ground, and sending a cloud of dust sweeping up, pattering against a hard surface.

It was minute, but it was fatal, at least for purposes of the exercise.

A few seconds later, and a scream, the sound of something heavy breaking through thin wood, followed by a hard impact of metal on flesh.

And then silence once again.

As quietly as she could, she tried to shift herself upright into a more comfortable position. Cradled in a small nook did tend to produce cramps in anyone, but unlike the more careless of her cadre, her own movements were restricted to say the least. Unthinkingly, she manipulated the black cloak until it was draped over a small branch at her arm's level, completely blocking any movement that occurred behind it from a casual observer's eye.

Shielded by the black fabric, she was able to stretch out agonizing muscles for a few short moments, before she saw the movement.

She was quite amazed as to how accurate Plinus had described the principles of detection and stealth, citing as to how it was never a face peering out of the dark that caught a person's eye, but rather, the movement made by the prey as they tried to conceal themselves better against hostile eyes.

Willing herself to remain still with a calm she could not possibly emulate for long, Anna waited, her eyes attempting to pierce the dark, searching in vain for any sign of their imminent demise.

In the heat of the moment, she neglected the vital principle Plinus had taught them in observation.

_The peripheral is key: just because you see something doesn't mean it will stay there for long. _

As a result, keeping her eyes drawn, brows contort in effort as she tried to pierce the shadows, she only spotted the black cloak when he was a mere meter from an equally unsuspecting Kristoff.

If she had ever doubted the Blademaster's ability, any such feelings for the black cloak disappeared in the moment she drew breath for a warning.

Even though it was muted, and the Guardsman was so ever close to his goal, the short intake of breath was not lost upon Plinus.

An arm hurtled back, producing a throwing blade in an instant, and sent it into the log above Anna's head with a shuddering thud.

All before a noise could leave her throat.

Kristoff had enough warning to turn about, but, unprepared as he was, and without the element of surprise, it was hardly a fair fight, as Plinus simply grabbed him by the collar, punched the deactivation switch on his suit with far greater force than was necessary, and launched the locked up man at least a dozen meters through the dark, straight into Anna's hiding place.

However, upon closer inspection by the Guardsman, the elusive woman quickly proved to be nowhere to be seen.

Like a wraith, he flittered over the landscape with infinite care, producing a blade as he went.

Anna, on the other hand, was on the verge of dying from fright. It was impossible to even consider hiding from the Guardsman, let alone taking him on.

She hadn't even drawn her blade yet, fearing it's reflection off the dim light in the sky, mimicking the moon's glow, would alert the vigil shadow. Even if she had drawn it earlier for combat, she was way out of her depth with the long blade; it's length making a strike from the shadows somewhat awkward to say the least.

Early practice had already taught her that swordplay with the long blade was a field well outside of her talents. Besides, Plinus had somewhat skipped on the many technological perks the rest of the Guards seemed to enjoy, citing one had to possess the skill to make do with the bare minimum before they could enter the unpredictable crucible of war, where anything could go wrong. As a result, Anna was left in envy of the matted blades and suppression field that encased the Guardsman's sheath, but she was left with little she could actually do about it. Drawing the blade, with her movements already restricted by the cloak, would be the last thing she did.

_The cloak._

Suddenly, Anna knew what she had to do to survive.

* * *

The slight crack of stone was enough to set Plinus on edge. To his credit, he did not instinctively spin around as so many an untrained predator would do.

After all, the movement would reveal his very own location to his students.

Rather, his own motions were careful, with a muted stride that refused to betray his lowered movements to his prey's eyes.

There; he saw the slightest flutter of fabric disappear over a small ridge in the rocks. Whoever it was, he had to admit, they were good. The movement had been minute, but it was insufficient to completely conceal the person from sharp eyes.

Only painful experience was usually enough to tell when one was ready.

Dropping to all fours before he bound forward at a sprint, Plinus cannoned over the ridge into the initiate, an unforgiving fist already formed in a drawn back hand...

He slammed into the cloak, but what lay behind it was only thin air.

Too late, Plinus realized he had fallen for the same trick he'd pulled upon many an unsuspecting predator, and he pulled himself upright, searching for whomever had deceived him before they made use of their newfound advantage.

Blademasters who exposed themselves to the world to see didn't tend to last long.

As soon as his back was turned, Anna dove forward, caution abandoned to the winds. The blade, without the obstructing fabric of the cloak, tugged free out of it's sheath with ease, only for it to be discarded to the side, rattling loudly off the rocks.

Instinctively, Plinus head turned for the ring of metal upon stone, in time to spot the finely crafted blade sitting upon the rocks, mocking him for his negligence.

Unbraced as he was, despite Anna's relative light weight compared to the Shadow, the pair of them were sent sprawling as Anna launched herself into his back, toppling the cursing Guardsman.

As she struggled to retain a grip with her right hand, Anna's left scrambled across the furious Titulian's neck, trying to reach the deactivation switch upon the Blademaster's own suit, located at the very top of his chest, when an iron gauntlet caught her hand, and a second palm slammed into her elbow.

She could already see her arm shattering if Plinus decided to apply more pressure.

But caution had already been thrown to the winds.

Slamming her free, right hand into the Guardsman's face as hard as she could, and nearly breaking her own fingers with the hard contact against carapace, Anna was somewhat relieved to find Plinus had released his dangerous grip upon her outstreched arm, only for the Guardsman's mass to become a bucking fury that proceeded to send Anna skyward.

On her descent toward the ground, her downward movement was only halted by a gauntlet around her throat.

'That was pretty good,' the shadow admitted, 'very good.'

Unfortunately, the compliment was somewhat lost upon the following headbutt that proceeded to send Anna into the depths of unconsciousness, in some comfort knowing that the hunt was over.

For now.

* * *

'You wanted to see me?' Varro asked the dark mass of carapace, concealed behind the draping cloak.

'Thought I'd wish you good luck and all that sorry crap, with not dying without the rest of us again,' Plinus scoffed, before he straightened up right. 'I need to speak with you on the matter of the new recruits, or rather, Anna.'

'What of if?' Varro quizzed, slightly confused. The girl had already shown plenty of survival instincts on their last ill fated excursion, and enough wits about her to keep her breathing.

'We don't have enough time, or the resources to enact standard genetic modifications,' the Hunter quickly explained, aware that the Battlemaster was needed elsewhere, 'but that means I'm stuck training them in where their strengths lie.'

'You can't train a detachment of Guardsmen in a day, Plinus,' Varro said, 'what were you expecting? Korai?'

'Well one can hope,' the Blademaster admitted, reminiscing on the muscular, monstrous inhabitants of Lementus that could easily crush a man's skull in a single hand, who had long since earned the honour of donning the black cloak. 'but still, I'm not going to be providing you with a very reliable force in the field, Varro. You might need to take that into account when we start planning on taking the fight to Foresh.'

'I'm aware of the limitations of auxiliaries,' Varro cut across, 'just tell me what you intend to do about it.'

'Well,' Plinus began, 'as a result of our lacking access to gene augmentation, some of our combatants are going to be a bit prone to being overpowered by the foes they'll face.'

It didn't take much else to spell out the issue Varro had on his hands. Truth be told, in the Guard, there never had been the option for leaders to sit at the rear and direct their forces; any who was fit to lead was fit to fight and die with their own. Of course, if that person was prone to dying though, it certainly made the odds of their forces breaking, at the sight of a decapitated leadership.

'You're talking about Elsa and Anna, aren't you?'

'Well, the Royal Guard know the sharp end of a blade from the handle, and Kristoff and the volunteers certainly aren't lacking on the physical side. Skill wise, a few days in the simulations, and I'll have them ready. Elsa, well, she's a Stormcaller. But Anna, she'll still need to lead from the front and...'

'And she might end up getting thumped by a juggernaut, I get it.' It was a fair point, Varro conceded. Men fought all the more harder when they knew the ones they followed were not hesitant to share their fates, and besides, Anna was hardly the character to sit back and let others bleed. But it didn't change the fact that she hadn't spent the better part of her life training with a sword, or developing the uncanny strength displayed by the ice harvesters that were filtering in, outfitting the newly formed Arenedellian militia. Still though, Plinus rarely shared something if he didn't already have a solution.

'What are you thinking?' the Battlemaster queried.

'She might not match a demon in strength, and her marksmanship leaves a lot to be desired,' Plinus admitted, 'but she's fairly competent with silent movement...

'That won't help in a straight up fight.'

'...but also very fast.' As he said the words, the Blademaster absent mindedly moved a gauntleted hand to his chin, supposedly readjusting a seal to the inexperienced observer. Varro though, marked the irregular movement.

'Don't tell me she managed to punch the high and mighty Endrian Plinus.'

'I'd say I slipped,' the Hunter barked indignantly, 'but then I'd be lying. Yes, I'll admit, I wasn't quite expecting that.'

Even Varro took a moment to acknowledge the feat. The last time he'd managed that was in the training arena, twelve years ago. It was no secret that Plinus rarely prefered direct contact, slipping and sliding around a person, never meeting his blades with another weapon; only skin and bone.

'She's got quite a bit the others don't.' Plinus finished awkwardly. While he was still somewhat proud that someone had managed to even land a stroke upon him for once, it was still nonetheless shaming to admit the shortcoming to someone who didn't easily forget mistakes made by typically flawless soldiers. Come to think of it, this was the same woman who had managed to flatten him into the earth with the rapid direction of a stead, during his first meeting with the Humans upon the shoreline. 'If you give me the green light, I'd like to train her as a Shadow.'

'You're not serious.'

'The double dagger technique suits her better than a long edged blade,' Plinus advocated, 'it'll play to her strengths, and with two short blades, or a short blade and a pistol, I can see her getting further than swinging a single longsword.'

He could see Varro was close to caving in. In truth, there was no real reason to refuse the request; with the Fifty Ninth having lost the entirety of it's Shadow Corps amid the furious descent, with only three of the previous two hundred, all of which in critical condition, emerging alive from the wreckage, it only made perfect sense to begin to reform the Fifty Ninth's close combat unit. Trained with blade, dagger and pistol, any Shadow was dangerous at distances below a dozen meters, and though Plinus officially wore the mark of the Hunter, the Titulian had still trained as a Shadow amid his earlier days, before he opted to adapt his tactics to his own, as did most of the Fifty Ninth.

Surprisingly, Varro did not fall into the usual last ditch denial of the elite training being distributed to beings that were not yet officially fit to wear the black cloak. Perhaps he really understood the depth of the cesspit the Fifty Ninth was sitting in.

'If you can train her without killing her,' Varro muttered darkly, 'you have my permission. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a flight bound South.'

'Great Father guide you, Varro,' Plinus breathed.

'And may he watch over you,' Varro finished, before he cocked his head to one side in silent contemplation, still pondering over what his old friend had just suggested. 'And may he deliver mercy upon Anna.'

'No promises, sir.'

* * *

It was nearly nightfall when the alert blared, jolting Anna out of her bunk in a mad scramble to avoid being caught napping, before an automated voice sounded off in her earpiece.

'Report to Blademaster Endrian Plinus immediately, initiate,' the automated voice intoned. Still trying to wrap her head around the concept of remote audio feeds, it took a few moments for Anna to realize it was actually a direct order from Warden, rather than the foreshadowing of madness voices in one's head were once believed to be, as long as that one did not have a piece of metal nestled in their right ear.

A few moments later, and she was stood, sweating away outside the steel bulwark their uncaring instructor had previously noted as his abode.

Something had warned her earlier that the punch was hardly going to be forgotten, and not for the first time, Anna was cursing her rather dangerous habit for refusing to think before she committed to something she regretted, even as she absentmindedly rubbed the bruise on her forehead.

Well, she tried to shrug philosophically, it was a little late for regret now.

It never occurred to her that, in the heat of the moment, as the steel wall swung aside to admit the same mask of carapace that had previously been sent reeling back in the wake of a rather painful contact with a fist, for both participants of the blow, to invoke the very fact that she was in fact above the man in rank. Or, more correctly, the Titulian.

Varro had already conversed with Elsa upon returning from the inglorious incursion into Wesselton upon the new structure of the military forces that were assembling in Arendelle, and the end agreement was that she would essentially hold the same authority as the Battlemaster himself, with Anna and Kristoff, alongside a few others, holding the equivalent rank as a Fieldmaster, having operational command over a small detachment, perhaps a company of recruits. And though Plinus was a Blademaster, such a rank was one of honour, rather than rank. In truth, he was answerable to Victus, and as a result, Anna.

But if she'd learnt one thing over the past hours, it was that irritating the present company when one was within throwing distance of a honed blade was not usually followed by suitably life prolonging results.

'Come in,' the Hunter said. It was hardly an offer, and Anna took the liberty of shutting the steel door behind her, before she planted herself upon the cold, steel seat ahead of the Blademaster's desk. Strangely, even with a suitable counterpart on his end of the table, the Guardsman refused to reciprocate the gesture, instead opting to lean against the wall, leaving Anna in question of how deep a grave she had just dug herself.

'You did well today,' the Hunter muttered surprisingly, although, Anna had seen the Titulians snap easily between a calm and controlled state, to that of a murderous psychopath within seconds when they so wished, a trait Varro had already exhibited upon his first encounter with her sister, and more recently, the Duke of Wesselton. And the last compliment from Plinus had ended in a concussion.

Needless to say, the Guardsman's words did little to put her at ease.

'But...'

Ah, the 'but'. Here it came.

'You struggle with the long blade.' That was certainly not the accusation she'd expected, and Anna leaned back ever so slightly, wondering as to where the conversation was headed.

'It's a technique that requires a far greater deal of strength than you currently possess,' the black cloak went on, 'and far more than I have time to instil in you before Foresh hits the line. And between you and me, your fists are not usually the better option when compared to a blade.''

Anna wasn't quite sure if she was to take that as an insult, but she sensed there was something behind the Shadow's words, a proposal he was about to offer. It seemed the standard means of persuasion amongst the Fifty Ninth; give the worst case scenario, and then present an alternative that is, while distasteful, one that averts death.

'I can, however, adapt a more, refined method for your use.'

'What do you mean?'

'A Shadow's technique,' Plinus elaborated, as if such explained everything. 'The short sword technique, one I use myself.'

'Short swords?' Though Anna's knowledge of blades was somewhat limited, she had a vague understanding that, if someone had a far longer reach than another warrior, such as a pike or longsword, that person tended to hold the upper hand, particularly when their opponent took a dagger to a fight. What's more, the heavier the weapon, the greater the force one could rely on gravity to generate.

Those advantages didn't exactly stem from wielding blades that were about the same length as her forearm.

'The main problem with Guard blades,' Plinus explained, 'is that because of their lightweight, they usually rely on the user's strength to compensate for their lighter nature. Guard technique focuses on speed, over brute force. Your allies are already drilled in more direct approaches, and I can't change what they've learnt; to do so would be quite disastrous, but you; you're fast, but you lack the physical strength for direct combat. No offense intended of course.'

Anna certainly wasn't going to argue, as she absentmindedly rubbed a battered shoulder. If Plinus hadn't opted to remove their edged weapons and replace them with blunt drill blades, she'd probably be dead right now, after she'd badly misjudged the last stroke of her practice partner, and an off balance swing to meet the blow had ended in a dark bruise. An inability to overpower her opponents was a telling disability, and she was opting, against the Guardsman's instructions, at deflection, rather than actually meeting the blows head on, and the thought briefly crossed her mind as to if she was in the doghouse for the blatant disregard the black cloak's crystal clear instructions. Plinus' words quickly dispelled that, though, not in the way she'd originally thought.

'I saw you already attempting to counter strikes by angling your blows,' the robotic voice went on, 'and it's a good effort, but still lacking in some technique. But that is indeed a Shadow's technique; if you're learned in the method, you'll never lock blades with an opponent until they're dead, and the short blade offers the speed and maneuverability you'll need to achieve that. I'll focus your drills to a greater extent toward the deflection of strikes, rather than meeting them head on. Of course, if you happen to misjudge the blow, you're most likely dead, but that's why we're going to practice anticipating blows. You up for it?'

Things were progressing too quickly for Anna. One moment, she was already bracing for the storm of insults as the Guardsman berated her for her lack of finesse amid training, and the next, she was being offered a new style of combat that would actually, somehow, allow her to see another day past first contact with the enemy. Of course, there was always the chance for death, she quickly realized, but wasn't that the case on the battlefield? One mistake and she'd see her parents again?

Her brain still not entirely focused upon her movements, she found herself nodding her agreement to the plan, as a smile began to creep across her face. A chance at living was better than no chance.

'Of course,' the hunter finished, quickly draining the growing grin of appeal from Anna's face, 'there is one drawback.'

'Alright?' Anna offered, trying her best to beam with confidence at the coming trials, and failing miserably at the attempt. Uncertainty of what awaited always seemed to spell doom for any.

'I can't have you carving up your pals with what I'm about to show you; with two styles, the drills won't be exactly in sync, and only one of you will learn at a time, and I can't waste time. So, you'll be training with me.'

What was left of the smile disappeared into oblivion.

* * *

'Remind me why we're doing this again?'

'Because Varro wants a living Stormcaller,' the irate voice shot back, 'not one that's rotting in a grave six feet deep.'

The black cloak rounded another corner, before they stepped onto the training fields. Well, such was a misleading term, referred to by name alone by the Guard, though why such was the case was beyond the Queen. Iron rooms, each maybe a quarter of the size of the courtyard that marked Arendelle's castle; each one separated by maybe five centimeters of alloys; each one filled with occupants that danced back and forth, attempting their best to kill one another with dulled blades.

At least, that was the case in the first two rooms they passed; housing the members of Henrik's unit, and a lead detachment of Arendelle's finest, brought by none other than Birgir himself, at the behest of Elsa's word. Though it had taken a lot of convincing to bring the Master of the Guard to take a squadron of his finest men away from Arendelle's walls for retraining, while their places upon the walls were replaced by noneother than the Shadow Guard's Fifth Company; the Guardsmen who had nearly ended the life of his Queen, a direct holographic communique relayed by Plinus and Victus had eventually brought the hard set man to Abaddon's halls.

Now, they hammered at one another with renewed vigor, following the new drills set up by the Guardsmen in preparation for the oncoming conflict with warriors that were not human anymore, or those that never were.

The other occupants though, were not as fortunate to be using dulled blades, Elsa noted. Or maybe, they simply did not care for the precaution, as the occasional splatter of blood hit the ground amid the constant clash of blades, though, despite such wounds, not one duel skipped a beat, only ending when a blade reached the neck, and restrained itself there, less than a centimeter from ending a life.

She had more than a few reservations as to what she saw in the last ring, as her sister was practically hammering the equivalent of a steel wall, as Plinus continued to deflect each blow, before the roles switched without a pause; both of them a hurricane of movement.

Thankfully, the speed at which Anna was being required to move meant that the sharp blades in her hands was not noticed by Elsa's eyes.

A low whistle quickly snapped the Queen's eyes away from the encounter regardless, before she hurried along the darkened hall, finding herself in a similarly barren room, with only the Fieldmaster in her presence.

'First rule of combat is survival,' the Guardsman said, words crisp as the winter air, 'you survive the initial assault, you'll live long enough to land a blow of your own. So, for today, I'm going to do my level best to send you to meet the Great Father. You need to survive.'

'What...' Elsa didn't get any further before she was forced to drag her hands up to throat level, producing a barricade of ice, preventing the sharpened blade that had left Victus' hands the second he'd finished his sentence from punching into flesh. She had enough time to note that the weapon easily had the capacity to kill, with it's serrated edge.

Before she could draw breath for an instinctive demand to halt the lethal exercise, the black cloak was already bearing down on her, the rifle snapping up, level with her recently opened chest.

The wall of crystal buckled under the fiery assault, barely holding together as the projectiles crashed into it's structure, before new shards flew to their aid.

Unfortunately, the shattered crystal had already achieved Victus' endgame; the spiderweb-like cracks in the transparent material severely dampening Elsa's capability to spot a target. A target, such as the Guardsman that was hurling himself over the barricade with a blade already drawn back to hack her apart.

Funny that they went to all that effort to get her back in the fight, only to kill her again.

Such was the last thought Elsa was able to manage, before over two hundred kilograms of death slammed into her.

* * *

Over the next few days though, despite rather rocky beginnings, Arendelle's finest began to slowly match the deadly standards set by their cloaked counterparts. With new men arriving everyday; mainly volunteers, but with the occasional Royal Guardsman finally recalled from a frontier post, a rotation of drills between different teams quickly made up for lost time, as those who had tested their mettle with the Guard were able to distribute their own experiences quickly with new arrivals. Practice rounds were finally striking targets with lethal accuracy, and Plinus was already proud to say that he had a new replacement Hunter team of marksmen, making up for the Fifty Ninth's early losses, that had reduced the sharpshooters of the regiment to a measly number in the low twenties. With short range teams, including those individuals who shared the same terrific strength of the lead Ice harvester, beginning specialized training with scatter rifles for face to face confrontations also beginning to form, Plinus might as well have given Varro a new army. With the fabricator forges of the grounded Behemoth churning out new weapons and munitions by the day, Guard steel was quickly replacing old blades that would have shattered against the hides of the monstrosities of the Storm.

Not that such was helping Elsa to a great extent, as she circled with Victus yet again, trying to focus herself to the best of her ability.

The ice, though powerful, was a clumsy weapon for combat. A weapon that was tied to one's emotions gave a vast range of possibility, but also irregularity in her strikes; something that Victus had stressed could prove lethal on the field. An untold amount of collateral damage, or even a snowflake produced at the calm onset of the battle, when surprise was of the essence; any deviation could bring about catastrophic for a cohesive battleplan.

It didn't help a great deal to recall that it would probably take her sister coming close to death again, or watching countless die in vain, to reach the same levels of destruction she'd previously

met, as her eyes narrowed, trying to envision the black cloaks as something beyond loathing.

Recently, Victus, having the greatest experience with Stormcallers amongst the Fifty Ninth, though it wasn't saying much, considering he'd only met the Stormcaller Corvus Aurelius for maybe an hour prior to the Battle on Relius, had been encouraging numerous stratagems to try and hone some focus in the ice. Love was quickly thrown out the window when the barrier ended up dissolving into a puddle, and the thrown blade had nearly separated Elsa's head from her shoulders, leaving her with a scar across the shoulder where the edge had cut skin. Ever since then, a hatred for Hans' mug had provided the most solid results, although, acknowledging the fact she probably wouldn't have time to place the prince's face upon each creature that tried to kill her over the coming days, Victus had soon attempted to use the results as a goal for Elsa to reach amid a neutral and calm state.

Progress was, slow, to say the least. It wasn't often one practiced trying to kill someone without their heart skipping a beat.

At the same time, simulations were now hardly an option, after a test run had quickly revealed that Elsa's cryogenics were still active even when the mind was somewhere else, leaving a simulation room that more or less resembled a glacier by the time Victus was able to wake her up.

Now, after eight days of trial and error, Victus had finally reached the decision to mimic a real battle as close as possible, hoping that the instincts were already present to spur the Queen onward to survival.

After all, he figured, any battle with demons would hardly be fair in numerical terms. A one to one duel with the entities of the Storm was unheard of; the closest it ever came was a farce that lasted probably until five seconds before the blades actually locked, and twenty more of the horrific monstrosities burst from the foliage to encircle the unfortunate Guardsman.

Which was why he was now flanked by twenty of his brothers, as he signalled the advance.

'If you can survive this,' he called unencouragingly, 'you'll breeze through anything you see out there.'

In Elsa's eyes, it was close to overkill.

At least she had a pair of comforting eyes willing her onward, as Anna's hand left her shoulder, as she stepped aside, out of the ring.

At least she wouldn't die alone.

* * *

A single stamp upon the ground threw up a barricade that quickly hit the very roof of the arena. Against any other, she guessed she could have just pushed the wall of crystalline material against her opponents, but after days of getting pummeled, she knew Victus would hardly let that impediment slow him.

Recalling nearly too late of what was about to hit her, Elsa frantically dragged up a second stockade barely meters from herself, as a blossom of fire engulfed the first, titanic wall. Truth be told, the blast hardly demolished the structure, but it was enough to leave an opening at the wall's base to permit the squadron of thundering Guardsmen, as Victus threw aside the emptied launcher, and drew a long, serrated blade in the same fluid movement.

Only five shadows had made it through the miniature tunnel before what was left was of the mighty construction was sent crashing down upon the rest, encasing them in a solid glacier with a hide that more or less resembled diamond.

Not that it was of great concern to the lead Guardsman. After several horrific near death experiences with the ice, including a near blow to the chest that ended in a trip to see the trolls, Victus had broken out Abaddon's hold, arming any of Elsa's training partners to the teeth for survival against a Stormcaller.

Warden suits; formidable, heavy variants of the otherwise paper thin Shadow armor, they also protected their wearer by less visible means, aside from thickened plate.

With ancient runes inscribed across their weathered forms, in words only understandable by the most learned of the Storm coven, Storm fields shrouded the small unit, providing a thin, but reliable buffer, against the more malicious capabilities of the other realm, in this case, preventing several hundred tonnes of ice compacting the Titulians into piecemeal, as the frozen movement inward was stalled by the stalwart fields.

There was little more time for concern for the Guardsmen, locked in place like a still captured in the moment of time, as Victus pelted onward, confident with the presence of Plinus at his side, no matter the rest of their number.

That was until a spear wall of blades lept to greet the pair. While Victus, having spent the better part of his time over the past days learning the tactics of the Stormcaller, and Plinus, with his natural aptitude for reflexes, were able to throw themselves aside, the rest of the five were not so lucky, leaving a trio of Guardsmen pinned to the wall that contained their trapped brothers, hanging awkwardly like paintings placed with little care for their value.

Although he certainly could not have voiced the thought in the heat of the moment, Victus was glad to see Elsa was careful enough to constrain the trapped black cloaks' hands with new shards of the conjured material. If she'd fallen for that trick twice, she'd never learn.

Disregarding any remaining logic that would only impede combat instincts, Varro hurled himself in the opposing direction to the Fifty Ninth's Blademaster, seeking to surround the Stormcaller before she could focus her attention upon one Guardsman, and tear him asunder, limb from limb.

* * *

Fully aware that she was certainly going to be reentering a world of pain if she allowed the two black cloaks to encircle her, Elsa let her fear run rampant; materialized as icy bolts that struck out in incandescent fury that cut the air like daggers.

A concentrated volley driving, or rather pinning a Fieldmaster to the wall, and Elsa was able to turn about, to witness the full fury of what Anna had shared with her in hushed tones after nightfall, as they retold their tales of the arena.

There was being an expert with sharpened edges, and then there was Plinus. Elsa had enough time to realize the Guardsman was actually mad enough to discard his rifle as he pelted at her on all fours; a feral beast sensing the blood of it's prey on the wind.

Then she saw the blades he clutched in his hands.

A pair of bolts held no perils for the Guardsman, despite her perfect aim; the shots streaked for the Blademaster's helm, only to seal themselves around the edges of the short razors, as the Blademaster's hands descended into a blizzard of movement, turning the growing blocks in his hands to meet any frozen bolt he could not avoid.

Seconds later, barely meters from his mark, the Guardsman simply abandoned his grip on the hilts; the blades inside already having lost their deadly edge, having been dulled with layer upon layer of ice coating it's serrations.

For a moment, Elsa briefly contemplated if the Guardsman was simply getting ready to draw another set of daggers, but when she saw his open palms, curled ever so slightly as they streaked for her neck, his intention was clear.

Not that that helped the Queen a great deal, as frigid carapace locked around the fragile throat.

Or rather, the ice that encircled it.

She didn't even know what had spurred the construct to materialize, but the result was still the same, as the cold ice formed an unbroken barrier around her neck, giving her some room to breath, even as it sealed the Blademaster's hands in place.

Though the eyes in the Guardsman's skull were always scarlet, Elsa had never seen them to positively blaze like an inferno behind the stalwart lenses. If it weren't for the ice collar she'd weaved around her neck, she was fairly certain the Guardsman would have held nearly no qualms about breaking her neck where she stood.

Then all the air was sent rushing out of her lungs, and she instinctively hunched over in agony in reaction to the brutal knee strike to her gut. Given enough time to make a mental note to lock all of an opponent's' limbs before thinking oneself was in the clear, Elsa realized with some dismay that her feet were no longer on the ground.

The strength of the infuriated Guardsman proving far greater than that of Arendelle's Queen, Plinus simply lifted the struggling Elsa off the ground, before he slammed his bound hands downwards to his side, shattering the icy bonds, and stunning Elsa in the same action.

Immediately, a blade was in his hand, sweeping down in a savage arch for Elsa's neck, and in that moment, Elsa knew the blade would not be halting until it drew blood.

The ring of metal snapped her flittering mind back to reality.

'How about two on two?' a familiar voice echoed.

* * *

Frankly, Anna did not know what had possessed her to go blade to blade with someone who had nearly taken her head off countless times. What madness had convinced her to step into the ring, and draw a blade against none other than Endrian Plinus himself.

And yet, wasn't that what the black cloak had drilled into her head, amid the insults and shouts as he battered her into the ground again and again?

_Trust your instincts, and accept death is already your fate. _

The impasse only lasted a split second; a pair of short blades criss crossed against a far longer edge, barely a foot from sinking into flesh, before the two figures erupted into a blur of motion.

True to his promise, Plinus had found a style to suit the more agile Princess of Arendelle, as the double edged defense, with one blade slamming into her opponent's weapon, whilst the other locked itself at it's partner's back, providing the leverage a short blade would otherwise lack when facing a longer sword with a fighting chance, as Plinus swung back the blade, before his mighty blow rang once more against the stalwart defense.

The sheer impact of the last stroke drove Anna back a step. Looking at the armored figure was deceptive; one could hardly tell where the metal ended, and the flesh began, leaving an educated guess of the Guardsman's strength to the imagination. But even this blow was unlike any she'd felt before over the past days. It was as if the Blademaster had cast away the restraints in the blink of an eye.

A second stroke; fast as a python, but with as much force as a hammer would carry, slammed for her head in a savage downstroke. Anna was barely able to drag the two blades up in time to meet the deadly blow, let alone brace for the ferocity of the impact.

Her arms threatened to buckle, but resolve emerged the victor over weariness, and the blades locked firm once again, halting the serrated edge perhaps a hair's breadth from Anna's head.

'What did I teach you?' The Blademaster quizzed calmly, before an arm detached itself from the blade's hilt, and shot out to seize her by the throat.

The gauntlet simply passed through thin air, as the blade hand that had once supported it's brethren against the hammerstroke was brought down in an instant. Though she hardly had the strength to face the Guardsman hand to hand, the motion was enough to redirect the outshot gauntlet aside, passing off to the young woman's right.

Even as it happened, Anna was already feeling her unsupported hand buckling under the renewed fervor of the Blademaster, and tested for something he'd only suggested in the early days.

_Commit to the unpredictable._

She let go of her grip on the blade.

Unprepared for the sudden release in pressure on his blade hand, Plinus lurched forward, even as Anna stepped nimbly to the side, a leg already extending to catch the Guardsman in a sweep.

Though the unorthodox maneuver would have certainly worked against any other opponent, Plinus had hardly earned his place as Blademaster by tripping up.

Rather than desperately try to retain his balance upon both legs when already hurtling forward, Plinus simply let his forward leg take his entire weight, leaving him perched upon a single limb, and poised like a crane, ready to strike.

When it came a second later, the strike was more or less resembled that of a bear's, as the Guardsman's left leg; having yet to touch the ground, spun about, driven by the twist of the Titulian's supporting leg against the floor, sending the plated limb of metal, bone and muscle crashing into Anna's hip in a savage roundhouse that promptly sent her at least a nine feet across the training floor.

Still trapped amid instinctive efforts to replace the air that had been driven from wheezing lungs left in the aftermath of the strike, there wasn't a great deal of resistance Anna could put up against the furious Blademaster, as a pair of long strides took him to her side, before he hefted her up by the throat.

'You're learning well,' he mused softly, in a lowered tone of respect only she could possibly detect, 'but there's a line between orders and instincts.'

_Well_, Anna was able to ponder, before the dagger in Plinus' hand buried itself in flesh and blood, _she'd have been a fool to believe any army would have let her get away with insubordination to this extent._

The searing pain never came; only the biting cold of ice.

For a moment, Anna wondered if the Titulian had merely been playing with her nerves again; preparing to land a lethal blow that never came, keeping her guessing between the ruses, and the actual, non-crippling, but agonizing strikes that left her in the infirmary for hours, hooked up to long lines of the strange fluids as Terinius did his best to repair the damage left by his battle brother's more unorthodox imitations of actual combat and pain. Plinus had never been one for full battle simulations, citing that the knowledge that a slaughter was simply an illusion tended to give one false confidence. It was an ugly sight he'd seen too often; a new recruit charging into the fray, expecting to wake up again upon death, only to do so at the Great Father's side.

As a result, though the philosophy had it's numerous opponents, Plinus' method of training revolved around instilling pain, and therefore inducing an incentive to avoid it.

However, this time, he'd stopped, though not the way he'd intended by a long way.

The black gauntlet was buried, up to the Titulian's elbow, in solid plate of armor that had been cast to line her chest. The blade still gleaming through the transparent restraints, it's many serrations made ever more terrifying by the hectic mirages produced by the many facets of crystal, even as the Guardsman tried, and failed, to break loose.

'Stay away from my sister!'

The words were screamed with a ferocity that even made Anna flinch. Plinus did a lot more than flinch, though it was likely due to the outstanding force of a glacier slamming into his forehead at top speed, and the Guardsman was sent hurtling back a distance that quickly put the length Anna had flown to shame.

Not that it was anything to be proud of on the Blademaster's part, as he was plastered against the steel obstruction of the wall, to face the full fury of a Stormcaller.

Rising to her full height, and only halting to motion a hand to remove the hardened plate that had protected her sister, Elsa turned to face the survivors of the onslaught. Indeed, the 'survivors' were only composed of a Blademaster and Fieldmaster, who had promptly freed one another from cold bindings with blade and uncanny strength, but it would still be a battle nonetheless.

As one, the two Guardsmen stampeded toward the risen pair, a blade occupying each hand that raced back and forth in the constant, pendulum's arch an arm took when one were to spur themselves at full pelt. How many more of the savage instruments they still had concealed beneath the carapace, Elsa did not know.

What she had not expected was the sudden flash of magenta before her eyes, as Anna stepped in, placing herself between the oncoming Guardsmen, and her own sister. She was once again wielding the two swords of varying length, though the one she had discarded amongst Plinus' first assault remained where it had fallen. Evidently, Plinus had started trusting Anna enough to fully complement her kit with a second set of edged weapons.

However, although she'd been well drilled by the Blademaster of the Fifty Ninth, even making a competent match for the finest guardsmen in Arendelle's ranks under the unique stratagems of Plinus, Anna's training was still practically composed of a Shadow's trials condensed into less than ten days of non stop exercises.

And now she was facing the finest warriors of the Fifty Ninth, regiment, save the Battlemaster himself.

She didn't last half a second, before a fist was already sweeping to connect with her nose; her two hands both already buckling under the daunting assault of three swords.

Victus' hand never reached her.

It cracked noisily against the renewed wall of ice, leaving a spiderweb of fractured crystal as it withdrew, before her other opponent; a berserk Plinus who was already drawing a pair of blades backwards in preparation for a crushing blow to her side, was swept away amid a winter torrent.

In the same moment, tossing caution into the winds, Anna was onto the cursing Fieldmaster, as he held one hand to his side, still trying to shake the pain of bruised knuckles from his damaged limb.

Even so, a one handed opponent was nonetheless dangerous, Anna quickly realized, as the Fieldmaster danced to the side, his own blade keeping the two, noticeably shorter edges away from his person, before, in the blink of an eye, he threw the hilt of his wargear to his right, damaged fist.

For a split second, Anna though the Titulain to be mad to be using his weaker, and bloodied hand to wield a blade, until she found the savage appliance of death swinging in from the unexpected, low angle that the previously limp arm had offered. An angle that well exceeded the capacity of her right hand to support her left in the double bladed defense Plinus had drilled into her. And with her left already raised to deal the ending blow to Victus, and it's length working against her, she quickly realized she'd be too late to stand any chance of deflecting the stroke.

Blood was no new visitor to the training floor of Firebase Abaddon, as the careful stroke slit flesh, dropping Anna to the ground in a second, even as the Fieldmaster's left hand was withdrawn to pulp the Princess' face as soon as she met the ground.

That was until the shadow was replaced with a statue; a crystal masterpiece with a living, breathing, and furious Guardsman at it's core.

In the same instant, Anna could only feel the soft comfort of a snowdrift, rather than the cold floor, across her back, as she slowly struggled to rise. Victus' blow had been careful enough to avoid permanent damage, only cutting deep enough to incapacitate his opponent with an uncontrolled fall downwards, and by now, covered in the cold powder, the stream had been reduced to a trickle of the red fluid; the pain dulled by the ever present cold.

'Anna?' A voice called over her shoulder, 'you alright?'

'I'm fine Elsa,' she returned through ragged breaths, 'I'm good.'

'And ready.'

The new voice: a metallic and cold shred of audio, was enough to send the ice shooting upwards again, sealing the royal pair off from the threat, before another bolt of hellfire, or thrown blade, could implant itself in flesh.

However, this time, there was nothing else other than a still Guardsman on the far side of the crystal curtain. A shadow, with a matted, silver eagle upon it's chest, carrying a razor blade between it's claws.

'It's not often a pair of sisters can best a Fieldmaster and a Blademaster,' Varro called, 'Let alone a week into training. True, you are a Stormcaller, but that was...unlike anything I've ever seen.'

Still fairly on guard, after nearly being killed by the black cloaks for the trillionth time, the wall refused to fall. There was little other response from the returned Battlemaster, save for the slightest slant of his armored skull, giving no indication of the grin that beamed under the helm.

'Well done.'

* * *

**Author's note: Thanks again to PascalDragon: thank you for all your support mate. To anyone else who's read up to here, don't forget to drop a review: feedback is always appreciated :)**


	13. Homicide, Mutilation and other Pastimes

_Doesn't sound like true love.  
__Kristoff Bjorgman, Arendelle's Ice Master and Deliver, upon hearing of an engagement between two strangers who just met that day._

* * *

It was silent when the doors finally parted to admit the most recently inducted Stormcaller alongside her retinue, to the darkened briefing room of Firebase Abaddon. Forsaking the old, ice bound dress that had quickly proved an impediment to the user when facing a Fieldmaster, Elas was now donned in what could only be constituted as an armored variant of the material; a method she had taken to ever since she had manipulated the tactic to save Anna's life, though it hardly followed the armored approach of a medieval knight. Rather, it was the rather cold cousin of the Shadow Guardsmens' suits; with a series of thin, crystalline plates around any location that did not pose any obstructions to her mobility, while still providing enough protection to prevent another trip to see Terinius. Combined with a layer of ice that had formerly composed her old dress, that now served as the fatigues beneath the new plate, similar to the body suits worn by the Guardsmen, all Elsa would have needed to fit right in was to paint the substances matt black.

That, and maybe don a helmet, and grow at least another foot.

She was accompanied by Anna and Kristoff, who looked the part far more than the Stormcaller, with each encased in a deceptively thin suit of carapace, and a black cloak draped about their shoulders, followed in short order by both Henrik's detachment, and a fairly grim Birgir. Then again, Elsa reflected, anyone would in Birgir's calibre would be fairly grim after having their face bloodied and purpled at the hands of a few, cloaked training 'instructors'.

On the other hand, there was little reason for the assembled Guardsmen present to be returning the deathly gazes, unless the situation had well and truly gone South.

Literally, as she was about to find out.

'Well,' the Battlemaster began, nodding in silent acknowledgement of Elsa's arrival, 'while you lot have been busy battering Plinus and Victus, Legion deployed into the Southern Isles; homeland of your old friend.'

While Elsa remained fairly impartial to the sarcastic quip, Anna could not help but allow a grimace to split her face. It had long been a decision that continued to haunt her, and the lack of sympathy that seemed to plague the Guard was hardly aiding her recent encounter with the psychotic Prince.

'I'm not sure about how much connection you've had with the South over the past years,' he began, before a voice cut him off.

'None.'

'...right,' the Battlemaster resumed, filing away the rather detrimental piece of information provided by Anna, 'well then, I'll take it from the top of what we took from the archives.'

Unlike their first rather disastrous meeting with the people of Arendelle, with some guidance from Birgir on common locations of history archives amid stone bastions, the Fifty Ninth's infiltration of the Southern capital was achieved flawlessly, leaving not a soul touched, and recovering the practical history of the South, along with more, ominous dealings that had transpired since Hans' fall from grace.

'Well, ever since the Winter incident, things have been a downhill slide,' he continued, 'one year ago, as you might know, Hans' fourth brother, Torben Westerguard, was installed as High King, despite some, notorious, mental instabilities, let's say.'

'We aren't completely in the dark, Varro.' Elsa put in lightly.

'Ah,' the black cloak interjected, 'but that's where things get interesting. You see, matters around the late King's death; High King Haythem, and eldest of the thirteen brothers, were a bit, sketchy to say the least. Details that might well not have been revealed for fear of diplomatic and political repercussions.'

That certainly got the sisters' attention. The explanation given by the South of their King's death was fairly, familiar, to say the least. Indeed, it was said the King perished upon the turbulent seas to the East, having never returned from a journey further South. Indeed, it was almost an identical situation that had claimed the royalty of Arendelle years past.

'Truth is, Haythem returned alright. But the next day, before his arrival in the harbour, something; a monster, according to the classified records, claimed his life in the narrow paths of the forest, despite being with a full retinue.'

'Wait,' Anna interrupted, trying to get her head around the sudden change in history, 'wasn't the second brother killed in a hunt?'

'A hunt trying to find his brother's killer,' Varro finished. 'And he wasn't the only victim.'

'Regian Westerguard?'

'That's right,' the Battlemaster noted, nodding in reply to Kristoff's question, 'the third of thirteen brothers. Which, practically gave the way to the throne open to Torben.'

'They must have caught the creature though, didn't they?' Anna gasped, trying salvage something from the situation.

'Slain by none other than Torben himself,' Varro mused quietly, though it was still loud enough for the untrained ear to register, 'but yes, the nature of the monster. Now I'm not sure if it ever reached Arendelle, but the records of the survivors indicate that the beast carried a branded marking across it's chest. Namely, that.'

His outstretched hand was pointed solely at Elsa, and it took a moment to realize that he wasn't in fact pointing at the Snow Queen, but rather the insignia of the snowflake that she had instinctively ingrained upon the chestplate of the young Queen.

'My seal?'

'Correct.' The Battlemaster said, his tone unchanged by the dark revelations. Elsa, on the other hand, had her head spinning as she tried to make some sense out of what circumstances had really surrounded three of the eldest brothers' deaths.

'But I never...' she got no further.

'Conjure anything along the lines of a six foot wolf,' Varro finished for her, 'yes, honestly, even if it was supposedly made of magical ice, I don't think it was your work. I don't think your old friend Marshmallow was capable of tearing a man's guts...'

'Thanks for the details,' Kristoff put in, 'but I don't think, you know; we need to know what exactly happened.'

'Alright,' Varro conceded, 'look my point is; something mimicked your powers to kill the King, and two of his brothers.'

'Wait,' Elsa interrupted, 'is there anything that could even do that?'

'Your powers come from the Storm, milady. And demons are the inhabitants of the Storm. Although their control over it's strength is, weak at most, in a few instances, there are individuals with more...control than others. Far less than the same control you possess,' he added quickly, 'Stormcallers are natural conduits of the Storm's energy; demons are only partly infused with it's strength upon entering the mortal realm. But even so, it'll be a brave fool who takes the threat they pose lightly.'

'So then, you think Haythem was killed by a demon? ' Frankly, Elsa was finding the world she knew collapsing around herself once again. Whenever the Guard started updating them on history, she might as well have taken a sledgehammer to what she knew to be truth.

'So it would seem,' Varro admitted, cold as ever, 'and you were, at least internally, framed for it.'

'What do you mean internally?' Anna asked in no little amount of confusion, 'I mean, they would have accused us of the assassination if they were convinced, right?'

'Not necessarily,' the Battlemaster explained, 'you see, any international testimony could seem circumstantial, particularly after the creature burst into flames upon it's death. Without any evidence, except for the word of maybe a dozen men who saw the sigil, no one would be under any pressure to believe the incident. You would have a plausible right to deny any involvement, and after that coup by Hans, it would look like the South were simply trying to even up their reputation by discrediting Arendelle. Frankly, no other nation would be under any pressure to believe the story, and if they'd made official declarations, the South would appear to be the ones in the wrong.'

By now, Elsa was well and truly lost. Now the demons were working to undermine the South? She couldn't fathom a great deal more, until Varro resumed his briefing with a vengeance.

'Though it would have, debilitated most other leaders, Torben turned the situation to his advantage. Namely, he fed his people with demands for justice against you, and even faked your 'replies' to the South.'

'I take it they weren't too generous on the portrayal of my sister?'

'Do you really want me to answer that?' Varro countered, eyes obviously cast in a sidelong glance toward Anna that clearly conveyed his disbelief in the unnecessary question, 'Look, the point is, rumor and Torben himself have turned the South into a paranoid nation that fears the unnatural. The Legionnaire corps is a good enough example; they might not have looked it back in Wesselton, since they were on foreign soil, but in truth, they were formed as witch hunters; formed in the wake of Torben's propaganda.'

'Wait, those bodyguards that came with Hans?' Anna asked in disbelief. Frankly, their performance did not exactly strike her as the 'best of the best'.

'We took them by surprise,' Tarus added softly, 'and Girius taking potshots from several kilometers out does tend to have a detrimental effect on morale.'

'And now they've seen how we fight,' Varro finished, 'with their rampant paranoia of the unknown, they probably won't stop now until we're all dead.'

'Or they are,' Victus threw in, 'but it won't matter; the more time we spend killing humans, the more time Guardsmen aren't on the line up North.'

'He's dividing our forces again,' Varro mused, before he looked up to face the assembled figures before him. There were of course the Arendelle representatives, alongside Victus, and the full complement of the Legion detachment. Ironically, save for Elsa, they were the exact same unit that had been brought together to deal with the Wesselton threat.

'This is no different to the incident with Wesselton,' he announced, 'we deal with the threat here and fast. Though he won't know it, Torben's own paranoia will be our ally. We either turn them to aid our efforts, or we remove them from the equation, permanently.'

* * *

For an archipelago dominated by flat, fertile lands, Anna thought, Hans' forefathers had certainly picked a location worthy of a challenge for their island stronghold. Entracus; the ancient capital of the kingdom that had become the collective Southern Isles, was situated on a cliff.

There was no other description, as the majestic towers of Castle Entracus spiraled into the night's sky; a shadowed silhouette against the darkening evening, that showed no signs of awareness as the shaded Omen streaked in on it's final approach.

Finally choosing to admit to the judgement of her sister and a Battlemaster, Elsa had eventually been convinced to stay behind for the duration of the operation down South, instead spending her time both continuing to hone her skills, and to begin the unending signatures of her seal upon the call to arms for Arendelle's allies.

Instead, the Omen that now hovered above the granite structures below carried only the Battlemaster himself, Anna, Kristoff, Henrik, and eight Guardsmen that formed Legion's ranks. With Girius and Ignus both detached for purposes of both the Omen's troop capacity, and their tenacity for long range scouting, the pair were now somewhere along the Northern moutain range, aiding the rest of the Warden's survivors in the long fight to belay the enemy's assault for as long as possible.

Meanwhile, in the South, Anna was finding herself, once again, clutching her guts as the drop lines sailed out into the open; an open invitation to death. Why they couldn't have simply trotted up to the door and request an audience like in Wesselton was beyond her, until Varro had relayed a tale of Tarus', namely, a test small test of the public mood against their Northern brethren, as he had waltzed into a small tavern on the outskirts of the Isles. Judging from the fact it had only taken a covert reveal of Arendelle's crocus sigil on his wrist to send patrons into an uproar, leaving twelve unconscious in an unevenly matched bar fight, Varro had managed to persuade Anna that a direct approach would only lead to an uncomfortable trip off the cliff to put it lightly.

At worst, their fate would last for days.

In that event, sneaking in for a quiet confrontation with the fourth of thirteen brothers was quickly catapulted to the favored option, leaving Anna stepping forward to the gaping mouth of the Omnen, even as the shadows lined up for their drop.

'Death is our fate,' Varro called softly over the comms, before there was a sudden rush of movement, as the Guardsmen charged forth, seizing the dangling serpents with iron grips, and descending into the abyss.

'Do you want an incentive to jump again?' came a familiar voice from the cockpit.

'No thanks,' Anna chuckled lightly, much to the chagrin of Kristoff and Henrik, before she tossed her ownself out the troop bay, and she was left hurtling toward the ground, or more specifically, the roof of Hans' home. Suppressing a short yelp, at both the cold nip in the thin air, and the sudden loss of firm ground beneath her feet, Anna was sent plummeting through the air, before a heel hit a steep, tiled surface, and promptly gave way.

For a moment, she lurched backward, into the open dark, before a cold grasp caught her in mid descent.

'Didn't Plinus teach you anything about being light footed?'

Anna simply let the comment pass; living up to any shadow's expectations was foolhardy to say the least, let alone that of a Battlemaster's.

'Just keep it down,' he whispered, as he caught the eye of Tarus and Regius, even as they seized the flailing men on the wind, and dragged them to the relative safety of the sloped roof.

After locking themselves in place, with small automated hooks that certainly did not look like they could take the weight of anyone who was donned in the heavy, powered carapace.

Since Anna herself was in a 'light' variant of the powered exoskeleton, save for the Titulian helmet and the signature black cloak, it was only fair she had apprehensions about the drop into open space, particularly without the hardened helmet that had quickly found to be unusable by the humans, unless one were to remove the nose.

As a result, each of the trio had been issued with a tactical visor, commonly used by ensigns aboard the great vessels of the council. Though the eye visor severely lacked the protection offered by a full faceplate, it still linked them to the Guard Battlenet, providing a constant stream of information that could be processed quickly and effectively with Warden's updated translation algorithms. The only draw back of the piece was the very fact that, due to it's non combat purposes, the visor produced a dim blue glow across it's display; a rather significant drawback for anyone attempting an unseen infiltration, making a manual deactivation necessary on each account.

'Come on,' Varro hissed, 'we're clear. Start walking.'

It took the greatest amount of willpower to swing herself around on the precipice, to turn face down on the long walk down, but eventually, shutting her eyes and praying for mercy, Anna shifted her feet back, and swept herself to face the emptiness below.

When she finally opened her eyes, she severely regretted the decision.

* * *

After an overly due landing with the ground, and remotely sending their lines back upwards to the rooftop to avoid conspicuous eyes, the makeshift squad of a dozen began their quiet pace along shaded corridors.

'So let me get this straight,' Kristoff whispered, drawing a groan from some Titulian over the comms, 'you want to find the most powerful man in the South, and try and bring him around?'

'Yes,' Varro hissed in his earpiece, even as the Battlemaster instinctively reached for his back, to check the demon's head was still where he had left it, 'and I would also appreciated it if you shut your trap.'

Kristoff and Anna could only exchange glances at that. Without the capability of a helmet that could restrict audio emitting from its interior, the three members of the Arendelle cohort were practically restricted to absolute noise discipline.

'Corner's clear,' Marnus called in a voice only ever so partially dissolved in static, 'move up.'

In a second, nine rifles were presented around the next corner, scanning the dark for any further movement, before their cloaked bearers advanced once again.

'Watch our backs,' Varro instructed, 'there's an intersection ahead; we'll split the force.'

Hefting the light rifle in her hands, and risking a quick glance at the cut down, stocky scatter rifles held by Kristoff and Henrik, the firepower the small trio hefted seemed woefully inadequate in comparison to that held by the disappeared shadows. That was until she recalled the barrage of firepower each rifle was capable of was pretty much equal to an entire company of regulars equipped with muskets.

The unease quickly disappeared, and she brought the small optical sight up, just below eye level, remembering Plinus' lessons in watching out for enemies.

_Never focus on a single area; keep scanning for movement, for it will be movement that gives an enemy away._

Well, she quickly realized, it wouldn't really be the issue of detecting them, as footsteps began to ring off stone walls, and the shadows thrown up by a lit torch began to wander into her sight, their masters only around the corner.

A chill ran through her spine. She still wasn't entirely used to the concept of controlling her nerves and fighting down the concept of diving to conceal herself, when the greatest form of defense was indeed to simply remain still. Unless movement alerted a detector, the casual observer would often simply see what they expected to see. It was certainly unnerving to believe one would not spot the three armored figures in the corridor, eyeing whomever the poor soul might be, from behind the transparent sights of a trio of rifles.

The shadows were growing bigger on the wall.

A shoe appeared around the corner.

Anna's finger was trembling, terrifically near the fateful trigger, when a hand seized her by the shoulder, and dragged her about the next corner. With a second set of fingers cutting off any sound from her mouth, her instinctive shout died in her throat, until she recognised the cold behind the gauntlet.

'Try and listen, lady,' Varro's voice whispered in her ear, 'missing instructions can get you killed.'

* * *

It was another fifteen minutes before they found another soul of interest, save for the two dozen sentries they had dodged since the near detection of the human trio.

The soft mutter of voices in deep conversation was like the rumble of thunder on the wind in Varro's tuned ears, and in a moment, the four lead Titulians immediately dropped to their knees, scattering to the flanks of the corridor, whilst their brothers laid their rifles down the passageway, over the heads of their brethren, daring an opponent to reveal itself.

Quietly, Varro gestured for the team to advance; with the forward cloaks moving forward at a crouch, under the presented rifles, providing the greatest phalanx of firepower to whomever might round the next corner.

There was no one to be admitted to death's doors; only the slightest shimmer of light from a balcony along the left side of the next corridor's wall.

Leaving Marnus and Regius to hold down their rearguard, Varro snaked his eyes up to the sill, to find himself watching down on what he could only describe as the most lavish and decadent display of riches.

Council members, despite their vast ranking in an intergalactic body, never truly indulged in banquets and the like, let alone in a hall the length of a training room, except one filled to the brim with what he could be presumed to be all the known delicacies of the world.

Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he had not turned up three years earlier to the coronation. The inhabitants of the Council, like their approach to royalty, were more than apprehensive about an extensive divide in rich and poor. In reality, the abodes of Councilors were no larger than those of a maintenance technician; the equivalent of the everyman in the Council. Each soul had it's role in the Council, no matter how small or large.

'By the Great Father,' Tarus cursed, 'looks like enough to feed a whole block.'

'Depends on who's in the block,' Varro returned softly, as his eyes continued to sweep back and forth, never ceasing to acknowledge the information around him for processing, 'but I'd wager they're people of some importance.'

'Hans isn't here,' Anna quickly stated, somewhat relaxing upon the statement, 'but they; they look familiar.'

'Similar,' Kristoff amended, 'his brothers?'

They certainly had a royal air around them, if one could consider hauty to be a sign of expected authority, the Battlemaster mused. And they each carried the same auburn hair, or green eyes that had marked their quarry in Wesselton.

'Probably,' he heard Anna agree, 'but you think Torben's here? I've never actually seen him...'

'No,' Varro immediately replied without turning about to direct his answer, 'according to the reports, he received a scar across his forehead during the engagement with, well, whatever killed his kin; a scar that never healed. And I don't see that anywhere.'

In all probability, he decided, reassessing what he saw, only five of the men were indeed related to the rogue Prince. The others were probably aides, or lieutenants, but the facts were undisputed; neither of the two men they were searching for were present in the room below.

Varro was on the verge of moving on when a short gasp halted his movement. He began to draw breath for an enquiry, but was quickly halted by a touch on his shoulder, and a single finger placed against closed lips, in the uniform message of silence.

'...trouble with the mercenaries from Wesselton,' one voice muttered in hushed tones, 'at least, that's what Hans said.'

'You could never trust cut throats who kill for coins,' another cursed, 'the Legionnaires; that is something that will finish a fight, particularly when under he leads the corps.'

'Who's he?' Kristoff began, before Tarus clamped his mouth shut with little care.

'...aye, a natural leader that one, even with that petulance for Father's love.'

You forgetting that screw up with the witch up North?' Another, less approving voice added to the conversation, 'If it weren't for that idiot, we wouldn't be sat here mobilizing for an army to get rid of what one could have achieved with the right time.'

It didn't take great scrutiny to determine that they were talking of the latest addition to the Westerguard family, although, the very nature of the information that Hans now commanded Torben's elite guard would have to wait for later analysis, as one head gently glanced upwards, to the balconies above.

Instinctively, Anna ducked back down, but in that moment, the movement was more than enough to draw the curious eye of the youngest of those brothers present.

'What did he tell you,' Varro hissed, remaining a rock where he sat, 'the movement catches the eye...'

He didn't get any further, before the man rose to his feet, an arm beginning to rise. Needless to say, he had probably sighted the rapid motion and then, eyes drawn to the area, he had likely identified the matted red lenses in the dark.

Varro's sights were already centered to pop the Prince's head, when the rising arm halted at the man's hip, and produced a short flash of steel.

Varro spotted the gold tinged eyes.

* * *

What followed next was as perplexing as it was terrifying. The man practically became a whirlwind of motion, ripping his skull from the sights before the shot could depart the barrel, and promptly planting the blade in the chest at his side.

All pandamonium broke loose, as men fell back in their seats, or simply stood rooted to the spot as the Prince pulled the grisly knife from his own brother's chest.

Another brother, likely the eldest one present, was already in the midst of drawing his own sword, when the killer simply sent his own blade flying in savage archs through the air, until it thumped into his kin's throat.

Like a feral animal, he leapt upon the table itself on all fours, seizing the blade of his first fallen brother, and savagely ripping his own short sword from his eldest's throat before his corpse, previously pinned to the chair by the blade, was allowed to fall to the ground, clawing at the opening in his throat in final, instinctive attempts to stem the unending tide of red.

'What on Earth...' Anna was lost for words to describe the sudden slaughter house that had unfolded below. Varro, on the other hand, held fewer reservations.

'Demon,' he cursed, before he bellowed his next instructions. 'Weapons free! Kill it!'

The moment they raised their rifles to bear though, the man was already throwing himself at the wall beneath them, below the angle of fire.

The instinct was of course to simply place the rifle over the railing, and blast away at the poor soul below.

As a result, three rifles were presented over the guardrail, before Varro's warning shout could halt the careless reaction, even as he readied a grenade.

The second the first barrel was dangling out, the demon was already in the air, seizing the barrel and dragging it over the rail, along with the person behind it.

By chance, it was Anna's.

It wasn't a grave distance to fall. Truth be told, it was probably less than five meters; far less than two hundred feet, and she was encased in light carapace. What's more, the demon's hurl had taken her on a direct path into the recently cleared table, providing some brakes before she met the stone floor.

Not that it seemed to make it any less painful.

Groaning as she tried to carry her aching head out of twisted wood, Anna was quick to reach for the fallen rifle, only to find it had been wrenched from her grasp in the fall.

And the psychopathic Prince was only three meters away, as he finished the last of the other nine occupants of the hallway.

Instinctively, never stopping to remember instincts had gotten her into the current mess, she produced the two short blades Plinus had entrusted her with for the coming days of the apocalypse.

She was only met with a smile.

'Guards!' the killer screamed, before he pulled his own blade to his neck, and promptly slit the thin flesh.

Moments later, and the doors caved in, admitting a steady stream of musket armed men, to ten dead bodies; five of whom members of their own royalty, and a frozen Anna, who still hefted two short blades.

There couldn't have been a worse set of first impressions.

The room filled with smoke, and not the choking smoke of a Guardsman's smoke grenade

It was the table that she had fallen into that saved her life. With each musket round lacking the penetrative power of a hellfire rifle, the only lasting damage delivered was solely a shattered ankle, as a single round tore through exposed limb.

Even so, as Plinus had so kindly drilled into her by painful experience, even a single wound could be fatal in a battle.

A bleeding pain in her leg was not exactly aiding her efforts to get out of the line of fire, even as the front rank lowered themselves to their knees, permitting the second rank to lower their own sights upon the slaughterhouse of a banquet.

Then, five of them were sent to the ground themselves, clutching weeping wounds as they did so.

It had been a painful, long moment of hesitation, but seeing his wife under fire was the final push, before his index finger hammered backward, and sent an explosion of firepower hurtling into the onrushing ranks of soldiers, and reducing their number permanently by two.

* * *

It took a moment for the survivors to realize that only one rifle had indeed been fired, by which time, Anna was already on her feet, moving at a full speed for a stone column, before the remaining muskets began to fire, bracketing the air around her with whistling bullets screaming past her eyes.

They were met by an overwhelming counter fire, as nine rifles, accompanied by two scatter variants, began to rain hell on their number, ripping through men where they stood. Things had already gone too far South for non lethal force to be authorized anyway.

Quickly, men were scattering to take some effective cover against the unrelenting assault, but the thunder of boots was all Varro need to know that they were about to be boxed in.

'Someone get Anna back up here right now,' he thundered, before he threw an outstretched finger down the corridor that they were currently occupying, toward the thick, oaken door at it's end, 'and get two rifles covering that way now before...'

He got no further before the doorway he had been indicating was thrown open to admit two dozen muskets presented to the now flanked detachment of Guardsmen. Someone, presumably an officer out of sight, called the order to fire.

While the many a round was sent deflected by the shaped armor of the Guard, the shear volume of shots, incoming from all directions as more men filled the balcony opposite, were a sufficient counter to the Guard technology. After all, Varro had time to accept, they were designed for stealth, not a full combat engagement.

Severus and Vorenus, placed on the right hand side of the formation's firing line, were torn to bloody shreds first, as three, four, five bullets ripped through each Guardsman. Vorenus fell silently, before a curse could leave his lips, dead before he hit the ground, whilst Severus himself was alive with anger, and warning shouts, even as he drew a hellfire pistol with a bloody hand, his other palm already smashed beyond use by a musket round.

Another round cut through Varro's hip, driving him to the ground with the impact, whilst another tossed Henrik against the wall, with a steel ball still embedded within his shoulder.

'Break contact now!' Tarus demanded, as he sprayed the newcomers with firepower, dropping five in a short few moments, 'otherwise, we're all dead!'

There was probably more to Tarus' instructions for his battered squad, but they were lost as a stray round tore into his cheek, and sent the Titulian spiraling off the rail.

Varro, on the other hand, was simply a beserker of old. The clip was long expended when the black cloak ripped into the backpedaling soldiers, a long blade tearing through flesh and bone short, rapid and savage strikes.

In the end, it took well over forty more rifles to end the rampage, at no small cost. Bursting into the narrowed corridors from each doorway, bayonets well at the ready, the Southern forces endured a heavy toll, but with their number falling with every passing second, it was a losing fight for the shadows.

Wherever the shadows turned, there were enemies at their rear, and the results were fatal.

Even as Junius and Decimus rappelled down through hell to grab the wounded Anna from the ground, their salvation above was hardly safe, as another stray round bullet ripped through flesh, this time tearing into Kristoff's side, dropping him to the ground as the white clothed regulars began to advance yet again, clambering over the growing pile of corpses that composed their brothers.

Down below, the two descending Guardsmen died with a song of th Fallen upon their lips, their bodies torn to bloody shreds as they butchered their way through the thinning ranks of the first responders, only to find themselves before the second batch of reinforcements, in the sights of at least twenty rifles that ended their beating hearts.

Meanwhile, a flash of thunder ripped down the hallway, as the wounded Severus was rolled over, to admit the grenades held to his chest, dragging at least eight others into oblivion with his raging soul.

But for every that fell, another dozen seemed to fill their place.

The last sight Kristoff witnessed before the hazy blackness claimed his vision was the Battlemaster himself, still tearing through his foes even as musket rounds painted the halls with blood, and bayonets struck home into the chinked armor, dragging the mighty warrior ever closer to death's gates.

* * *

'Wake up, Anna.'

She quickly regretted the delayed response, as a bucketful of frigid water was deposited into her face, eliciting a scream of surprise, before she was able to blink away the liquid from her sight.

Anna could only guess she was inside the equivalent of a dungeon. Perhaps though, on closer inspection, from the lack of a steel grids inches from her eyes, and the numerous, ominous wooden constructs that lined the stone room, her current accommodation was in fact Castle Entracus' torture chamber.

Considering that she was also no longer in the suit of light carapace, and she was now in the full body suit she had worn beneath it, the curious eye couldn't help but note down the rack, and other instruments of...

She spotted the green eyes behind the familiar face that slowly contorted into a smile, as the figure lowered the empty bucket to the ground, and began a casual stride towards her.

'Hans,' she seethed, about to lunge forward to throttle the life out of the treacherous man, when she found she was halted by iron clamps that bound her wrists and ankles to the solid chair, 'when I get out of here, I'll,,,'

'...Kill me?' he offered in slight amusement, 'Well, for one, I can only say that you won't be getting out of here any time soon, Anna, much less alive. And as for the killing...'

Anna hadn't even spotted the blade in his hands, before it was already being placed a bare centimeter from her eye.

'I think it'll be my choice, my lady.'

Though she couldn't help but shrink back from the razor tip at her left eye, Anna was unable to suppress a shudder at the familiar, haunting voice that had met her ear upon her first greeting with the snake.

'Where's your sister?' he asked without a change in tone, 'I thought the pair of you were inseparable now, or something like that?'

'Go to Hell, Hans.'

'Leave you to die again, did she?'

Anna was on the verge of screaming in his face, when the cold touch of the blade against her eyelid reminded her of the consequences. Still, she opted for silence, over speech with the traitor.

'Alright,' Hans conceded, suddenly dropping the infuriating facade of serenity, 'I don't have forever here, otherwise my brother will have my head. How many men does Arendelle have, and how on good Earth did you manage to get this?'

With her focus gravely out of depth with the blade millimeters from an eyeball, Anna did not see the psychopath Prince gesture to the discarded pieces of carapace on the floor, but the meaning was obvious. Like her, he had never seen such a piece of technology before, and it had taken the better part of three hours for seven men to pry away the obstinate hardware. As for the optical sight that had previously shielded her eye, he could have only classified it as the work of sorcery.

'Maybe because you have a bad habit of making enemies,' she hissed, 'and if you march North, I promise you, you'll pay a great price. Elsa has thousands at her call, and she'll turn you inside out before you could draw your sword.'

'Interesting,' Hans muttered. The blade waved from her gaze. 'you should have learnt to lie better in your youth, Anna. But that never was your style, was it?'

With that, Hans withdrew the short sword, only to plunge it down into Anna's knee.

'Memory recovering?' he quizzed lightly, ignoring the prolonged scream that bypassed Anna's lips. He had yet to remove the sharpened apparatus.

'What is wrong with you?!' Anna screamed at the top of her lungs, spitting blood as she kicked against the restraints to little avail, having narrowly avoided severing her tongue. Hans' only immediate response was to pull the blade closer and closer toward himself. She felt something snap out of place.

'I'll be back soon,' he promised, as he wrenched the sickly blade from skin and bone, 'unless of course, you have something to say.'

'You're no match for Elsa.'

Hans didn't bother with a sly reply, simply slipping that same, smug grin as he closed the door behind himself, leaving her for dead once more, as her blood continued to seep from the wound; he life withering away drop by drop.

* * *

'I don't see what what the blooming fuss is,' Varro chattered, as the phalanx of Legionnaires filed into the room, 'if you're going to kill me, do me a favor and get it over with.'

He was only met with silence, aside from the patter of feet off stone ground. Unlike Anna, Kristoff and Henrik, who he had seen briefly before they were dragged off to wherever they were currently placed after they been torn out of their armor, the presence of a full face plate, and therefore a fully sealed suit, made removal of the carapace a somewhat, unfavorable task.

'Let me get this straight, you're actually going to spend several hours sawing through, just to get a look at what is under this crap, and then you are going to shoot me.'

'Maybe,' an officer grumbled, before he produced the short flintlock pistol at his waist, and fired into the Guardsman's chest at point blank range.

Thankfully, the prolonged presence of the wrent carapace prevented the bullet from marking any grave damage upon the Guardsman, as the overlapping layers twisted and slowed the round, intertwined with layered polymers slowing the round until it lay, unmoving in his plate. Unfortunately, he had not been blessed with such luck on previous occasions; already, he was riddled with five rounds; one of which in his false arm, while another lay driven into his gut. The fourth had narrowly grazed his neck, and now lay lodged between body suit and flesh. Aside from such though, he had endured numerous stab wounds and lacerations by bayonet, and was currently bleeding like a stuck pig on at least six accounts, including the stump that was all that remained of his right hand. The last bullet had shattered the wrist, and what had remained had been brutally amputated with a rusty saw, and a telling lack of anesthetics.

On the other hand though, the idiots had yet to find the concealed blades in his remaining wrist and his elbow, nor the microfiles in his his fingertips that were still busy chipping away at steel cuffs that held him down. And his own weapons, following the tracker embedded inside the biometric locked rifles, were only in the room across.

In other words, he was ready to kill in five.

'New orders,' the guilty officer announced, completely unaware that his round had failed to draw blood amid Varro's deceptive roar of pain, 'King Torben's orders. We kill them, and them dump them off the cliff.'

'All of them?' a soldier asked, hefting a rifle up to chest level, 'I mean, well...weren't we meant to retrieve the armor?'

'I don't know,' the commander shot back, 'Torben seems to think we don't need it, he just want them dead now. The Princess of Arendelle stays alive until Hans says, or does otherwise. The others,' he slit an index finger along his throat to punctuate the final statement, 'shoot them. Firing squad, shoulder arms.'

At his command, five barrels were shouldered, as their owners formed up into a pristine line to face the Battlemaster.

'Last favor, chaps,' Varro asked, in a manner that apparently showed no understanding of his situation, 'Torben Westerguard; what's his eye colour?'

'On my order,' the officer called, 'load.'

There was the clatter of iron, as the crude balls were loaded down each rifle's bore.'

'Or you could just be the rude, jumped up heap of trash, that's fine too.' In no small display of irritation at the Guardsman's words, the officer snorted his disdain, before he finally relented to the smallest degree possible in the business of killing.

'Amber. Take aim.'

Five rifles were lowered to the Guardsman's chest. At this range, there was little doubt that even the idiots could miss, let alone fail to kill him again.

The order to fire never came, as their officer, his white coat rapidly turning a shade of horrific red, tumbled backwards, the remains of an iron cuff that had previously restrained the Guardsman lying dead in his throat.

It took a moment for the assembled men to realize what had happened, by which time, Varro had already rolled out of the chair, with brute force finishing the job the microfiles had started. And a silver blade now occupied his remaining hand. A killer had replaced the incompetent, unbearably chatty prisoner in the blink of an eye.

Trapped in a small, confined room with a black cloak of the Council, the men of the Southern Isles never stood a chance.

* * *

If the application of brute force was actually supposed to elicit information, Siegfried considered, by now, anything of value had been literally been beaten from memory.

Indeed, after thirty straight minutes of hammering the bleeding man's face, a task that took numerous rotations amongst his men, he was starting to have severe doubts as to if the man his Prince had only identified as Kristoff Bjorgman would actually be able recall anything of use.

Logic stated that they'd use either one of Arendelle's couple as leverage upon the other, but not for the first time, Hans was being remarkably tight lipped as to what his intentions were, holding Anna in the secure wing of the Entracus' dungeons with only a limited security force, but then again, the last one to ask too many questions had ended up somewhere far, far below.

Entracus did boast some of the greatest cliffs in the known world.

So, for now at least, Siegfried kept to himself, merely opting to complete what grisly task had been set before him, as he tried to wipe another splatter of blood from his coat, to little avail.

It did little to improve his mood.

'Watch it,' he growled softly, his eyes contort into a scowl as his gaze passed over the man who had just delivered the messy blow, 'we need him alive.'

'They didn't say in what state,' the voice called back.

Siegfried didn't bother to voice a reply. His place as a foreigner made it impossible to command any great deal of respect amongst the Southern soldiers, particularly the upstart Legionnaires. They might be trained killers, but outside of war, it was a brave fool who decided to oppose them on any account.

Sighing, he turned about, heading for the door, only to witness the entire structure cave in under the airborne Southerner who promptly cannoned into the officer, pinning him beneath the dead weight.

In vain, Siegfried tried to free himself amid the other man's screams of agony, as a heavy weight was slammed into the shielding body, shattering at least a couple of bones.

The Legionnaire himself didn't get a pace away from where he had stood when he was tossed against the wall, empty space occupying the region his head should have.

Fumbling for the man's fallen sword, Siegfried's fingertips were able to scratch at the ornate hilt, before a boot stamped down hard on his wrist, leaving the broken and loose and of little use in facing the furious assailant.

'Where are they?' The voice was haunting; a chill to say the least. One that froze the cringing officer where he lay.

'I...'

The black cloaked titan simply responded by lowering the pistol he still clasped in his hands, and firing into the body that had trapped him against the cold stone floor. The first round simply silenced the other man, passed through him, and then ripped through flesh and bone yet again. The rounds were followed in short order by a simple pin; a hollow dart filled with something foreign to the World.

'Where?

'She's in the secure wing!' the officer screamed. Though he had not seen the toxic dart hit him, he had certainly felt it, as his nerves began to howl in agony as they began to melt away; each one a haywire circuit that screeched it's pain, putting even the pain Elsa had endured upon the activation of the augmentics to shame. 'The rest of them; your people; they, well, no one knows where they are, they escaped maybe ten...'

'Yoo-ho,' a voice called from the doorway, spinning the black cloak about, 'and I was wondering when you'd get out.'

'Save it for later, Marnus,' it responded in the same tone, before the Guardsman grabbed the screeching man's collar and dragged him upright, 'where is the secure wing?'

'One level down,' he spluttered, 'Eastern side of the castle.'

'Varro!' the voice from the doorway called again, only this time with grave urgency, 'Storm Pulse; we're not alone out here!'

With that, the one handed Guardsman leant down, red lenses glaring into petrified eyes.

'Is your King anywhere around here, out of interest?'

'No, he's at Fort Halsen...'

Siegfried didn't get another word off before the black cloak released his grip, and promptly placed three bullets in his heart.

* * *

They moved in complete silence, dodging patrols when they were well beyond the capacity of the Guard to combat in both numbers and arms, or, on more than a few occasions, bursting from darkened corners, or other hastily concealed locations that proved indispensable in the battered cohort's quest through the bowels of Castle Entractus.

If there had been any hope for the South, they had thrown it into the depths of hell when they had opened fire and killed four Guardsmen of the Council, and lost sight of their brothers. Used to fighting men in a game of war upon an open field or confrontation, not dissimilar from their first encounter with the Guard, the men of the Southern Isles were finding guerilla warfare to be a nightmare, unable to locate a foe that was easily capable of killing from the shadows.

Whenever small formation did halt to engage a band of stragglers, the results were swift, one sided, and brutally savage. Any restraints had been cast into the winds when their brothers had joined the Fallen, and, wounded as the company was, the South was quickly learning that an injured quarry is indeed the most deadly.

Henrik on the other hand, was frankly quite terrified of what he was witnessing. His vision was blurred and he was close to seeing stars with every stride he took, but it didn't take a clear mind to know when something had gone over the edge when they were still hacking at a body who was already long dead, from the lack of a visible head.

Indeed, each encounter lacked the raw precision that the Guard had exhibited in training. Now, it was purely instinctive. At times, they committed to the suicidal, sending one of their number literally diving out in a narrow corridor, spraying the passageway with high explosive fire that ripped through packed ranks of unfortunates, before blades were drawn, and something that could only be constituted as a slaughter followed, despite the injuries they had endured. Even Tarus, with an entire cheek gone, was still undaunted as he continued the long and bloody march.

It did not help to think that, besides Kristoff and Quintus, who had both been too heavily wounded to be of any assistance to the team in combat, that each surviving Guardsman carried a fallen brother across their back.

Though he wasn't to know it, the four unfortunates had been on the verge of experiencing desecration as their handlers hauled them down to the cesspit for disposal, when the survivors of Legion had finally caught up.

The doctrines of the Guard that called for honoring the Fallen had spoken enough to send the entire Southern cohort to meet the Great Father himself for judgement, in less than a minute of brutal bloodshed.

A hard jolt against his shoulder brought him out of staring at the most recent display of carnage.

'Time to move,' Quintus whispered hoarsely, even as Henrik tried to avoid eye contact with the mauled Guardsman. The result of a musket round tearing past the Guardsman's helmet, and into his left eye left grisly results he had no intention of witnessing more than once. And then there was the fact that his equally sadistic captors had amputated a crippled arm before the black cloaks had sprung loose on their rampage, not to mention breaking the other one at the elbow.

Needless to say, they were wounds that even the combat stimulants provided by the carapace could not counteract to permit his usage in battle, unlike his brethren who fought on, ignorant of the pain, and their human company, who had both neither worn a suit with stimulant injectors, nor currently possessed their suit of armor, having been the ones with the easiest sets to remove without heavy tools.

By the time they had found the armor by tracker, the sets light carapace had been reduced to scrap by crude efforts; utterly unsalvageable for combat, but with the potential for study, leaving Varro with little choice but to scuttle the wargear with explosives. Unfortunately, it also rendered Kristoff and Henrik unlikely to survive another direct encounter with bullets.

Soundlessly, they rounded the next corner, straight into two burly Legionnaires. Henrik had enugh time to realize that, unlike their brethren upstairs, these two each wore a scarf that was pulled up to the bridge of their noses, concealing all but their eyes. Their rifles snapped down with perfect instincts, but by the time they had begun to pull the triggers, the berserk Varro had already torn through their bodies, painting the walls with their blood even as Regius and Marnus slid into the falling corpses, silencing their descent as they gently lowered them to the ground...

It was then that Henrik realized that his mind had only played out the encounter he had expected: a repeat of the numerous killings he had already witnessed that evening,

Rather, the second Regius and Marnus had stepped forward, they had been hurled back by brutal blows as the two Legionnaires hammered at them with unnatural strength, tossing even the armored Guardsmen back against the wall, even after the wounds to their throats at Varro's hands. Rather, the only thing that such had done was reveal what lay beneath the strange abnormality in clothing amongst a uniformed regiment; a series of scars and satanic markings upon both cheeks, and mouths filled to the brim with razors and a serpentine tongue.

Ordinarily, one would be right to believe that in such an engagement, caught off and surprised against two demons possessing men of grave military training, cut off from the only handful of wounded men he had back him up, and with only a single hand, Varro was already dead.

But then again, unlike humans, these were creatures he had killed for well over a century of his life.

Sending them back to the Storm was his life, if one excluded the endless conflict on the Fronts against both the Nomad and Xeno threat.

Instincts taking over the second he had heard the unnatural thump of flesh on carapace, Varro had pivoted about, his left handed, short blade already exchanged into a reverse grip.

As he spun around in the anti clockwise motion, the rapid motion had pinned the serrated blade into the first man's skull with such ferocity that the weapon was wrenched from the Guardsman's grasp as it hit home, tearing flesh, and shattering thick bone.

Stunned from the brutal blow, the demon was unable to manipulate the limbs of it's puppet in time to prevent the Guardsman's brutal kick to it's side, effectively spinning it about to face it's killer where it stood. Then, his combat blade already filling his left hand, and planting a foot against the trapped demon, Varro lunged forward, impaling him upon the length of his old sword. The blade punched straight through, and hit home, into the black heart at the demon's core.

He didn't even need to turn his attention to the second man as he lumbered forward to engage the Battlemaster. A heavy weight cannoning into the man's back sent him sprawling to the ground, before Tarus' dagger had been produced, hacking into the back of the Legionnaire's chest cavity, breaking past the spine, and piercing the corrupted heart beneath in three savage strokes.

Only checking to ensure that both demons were properly dead with another set of perhaps overzealous blows that bit through ribs, ensuring that the region the heart resided in was completely destroyed, Varro signalled for the detachment to move, again once more, unburdened by the slaughter he had just committed, with the only worries on his mind being how many more of the foul creatures lay within Entacus' walls.

Aside from the pair of possessed Legionnaires though, the squad encountered no further resistance along the darkened passageways, even when they reached the secure wing. Truth be told, it was only another hallway away, but Varro could not suppress the instinct that the pair of foes had been left there for a reason.

Indeed, ever since he had heard that Torben meant to kill them without any attempt to retrieve their technology for study, Varro had his doubts as to if the King was a man any more. Waiting would have only permitted an inevitable escape with the Guard, but no man would have known such, and Foresh needed the Battlemaster removed.

And now they had stumbled upon two more creatures guarding one of their own number.

The fact that one of his own kin; a member of the Westergard royalty, had already been turned, spoke enough that anyone was a potential servant in the demons' endgame.

Only halting to slide the small peephole cover aside, and confirm Anna's presence in the room he was peering into, Varro simply opted for brute force once again.

Even though the key was probably somewhere in easy reach, why bother looking when one had a skeleton key? For any door, or obstruction for that matter.

The detonation of the breaching charge sent the door off it's hinges, flattening one of the two unfortunate guards, before the survivor's heart was impaled on a blade, and thrown carelessly against a wall.

After three encounters with demons, Varro was taking no chances.

Leaving Tarus to fire off a series of suppressed rounds through the wood, making doubly sure that, if a demon was trapped underneath, the heart that carried it did not survive, Varro swept the room with a pistol raised in his remaining hand, to find it vacant of all except the one they had come for.

'Clear,' Varro voiced off, nessling the firearm down into a more easy position to hold, but still high enough to snap up to a target, only to find Anna at the center of a growing pool of blood.

* * *

'Anna,' a desperate voice dimly sounded in her head, 'can you hear me?'

'Unresponsive,' another reported, this time metallic in nature, 'blood loss is fairly extensive; we'll need to seal the artery.'

'Copy that,' someone called, 'sealant.'

'Right, bind and set.'

Whilst her vision was a blur, she could partly feel something setting against her injured knee, setting off fresh waves of pain, yet she was unable to summon any real effort in reaction to the stimulus.

'Release.'

A familiar pain from the night Girius had returned echoed in her head, as the artificial sealant filled the empty space, even as two sets of hands brought her limp leg up until it was completely horizontal, before a third locked something to the crippled limb, painfully restricting any movement in the hobbled leg.

'Stim.'

Something was pinned into her arm, and in a few moments, everything cleared. Her sight, her listening...

The undamped effects of pain.

Anna was on the verge of letting out an instinctive scream as her mind returned to her body, only for a hand to be clamped over her mouth.

'Easy,' it whispered, 'it's just us. Calm down.'

'I got that,' she hissed back, eyes still screwed shut in an attempt to block out the pain, 'but have you ever had your blooming knee cracked out of place?'

'How bad is it?' Kristoff asked, off from the side, his voice thick with blood. His own sight was still somewhat impaired from his ordeal, with one eye unable to open as a result of the heavy bruising that plagued his face, and the other clouded by matted blood, leaving him unable to view the current situation as he continued to maintain his grip upon Hendrik's shoulder as a guide. Perhaps such was for the better, had Regius not chosen to break his silence.

'Someone popped your wife's kneecap out,' the voice whispered, before an armored hand smacked the back of his head, too late.

'What?!'

'Brilliant, Regius,' Varro hissed, as he primed another syringe and pinned it into cold flesh, 'ever heard of keeping the patient calm?'

'But isn't it...' Kristoff trailed off, 'crippling?'

'And we have Terenius,' Varro shot back, 'Now shut up.'

By the time he'd turned around though, he realized he'd already pushed the syringe's pump in all the way. After all, human physiology was vastly different from that of a Titulian's, and unlike the medical stims Girius had employed, Guard combat stimulants carried a potency of a far graver degree.

'Wow,' Anna mouthed, only partly lucid, 'what was that?'

'Maybe too much,' Varro admitted, as he cleaned the wound, 'you might be a bit tipsy, but you'll be fine.'

'Great,' she slurred, before she tried to rise, and promptly keeled over with the lack of any feeling in her right leg. The feeling of pain returned.

'Except if you do that.'


	14. Breaking Security

_There is no fear or dishonor in withdraw: the wise general will know when the time comes to trade land for lives, for assets preserved will find many a task that a dead man cannot hope to achieve_.

_The Path of War, by Marcus Severus; Battlemaster of the Third Shadow Guard, until death on Agbar VII, during the Second Nomad Offensive._

* * *

'Are you sure you're alright, Anna?'

'For the hundredth time Kris,' she hissed back in a lowered tone, unable to keep the pulsing agony in her leg from her voice any longer, 'I'll be fine, let's just get out of here.'

'And a little silence could never be unhealthy,' Tarus tried toxically, though it sounded more like a ventriloquist's act, with half of his jaw gone. Rather, it simply disintegrated into a hostile grunt, as he swung around the next corner, and promptly shredded the pair of hapless white coats where they stood before a scream could pass their lips.

As they had discovered amid the earliest stages of their escape, the well drilled doctrines of the South had quickly descended into chaos upon the brutal jail break. True, on their previous engagement, with three entire platoons stationed on close hand to react to the apparent slaughter of their royalty, containment couldn't have unraveled any better.

But now that the escapees were off the grid, disorder reigned, as men who were used to direct combat amid a firing line were forced to commit to room to room sweeps, with only a single round in each rifle.

Needless to say, the task was enough to set many a men on edge, and already, a number of cases had emerged of jumpy cases of friendly fire, thinning the ranks even further whilst their quarry remained to be found; something Varro was clearly taking advantage of, as the small team back tracked time and time again, throwing off their pursuers with decoy sounds in the Castle's many corridors, and occasionally even dropping an archway with a few well placed explosives, though such was only done when the unit was far off from the location, somewhat limiting its capacity to kill, but certainly buying the mauled black cloaks time to break contact.

Knowing injuries would limit their speed, Varro had split the force early on, sending those who had sustained fewer injuries, namely Hestus, Regius and Marnus, to lay down false pursuits for the enemy to follow. Though they had all sustained at least one gunshot wound, their hampered top speed was still counterbalanced by the inexperienced Southern forces, in the ways of hit and run tactics at least, as they rose from the shadows, massacred a small platoon, before vanishing once more, time and time again, leaving the way open for the more seriously wounded to retreat to the relative safety of Tullius' Omen.

In fact, while it had been the first site they had searched, few had thought to return to the very site of the South's first contact with the Fifty Ninth, particularly with the stray gunshot echoing off on the far side of the complex, leaving the route relatively clear as the injured column of black cloaked figures trailed along blood stained corridors for the opened window they had repelled in through.

The drop lines still hung beyond the opening, but as she dragged her eyes upward from the ground, Anna couldn't help but realize that three of the supposedly weightless lines were still drawn taught toward the ground, unlike their brothers that gently swayed to and fro in the evening wind.

Then a shadow filled her sight, or rather, three sets of red eyes beyond the opening in the wall.

'Took your sweet time, didn't you?' Hestus rumbled, as he lowered the rifle, though why he refused to re enter the safety of the corridor, and solid ground under his boots, was beyond her.

'How did you even get here?' Kristoff asked, perplexed beyond belief. Even as he said the words, another salvo of gunfire rang off, at least a hundred meters away.

'We started moving back here twenty minutes ago,' Marnus answered, 'they're just shooting at shadows.'

Sadly, the pun was lost on the three humans.

'Put the fear of the Fallen in them, didn't you?' Varro asked lightly, as he waved his compatriots closer to the window. He was the only one amongst their number who had moved forward at the first indication of Legion's second detachment, with the injured Quintus and Kristoff still supporting Anna between their arms, and Henrik still held back by both the need to watch their backs, and the small continued fragments of distrust for something that refused to reveal it's face. Truth be told, after the first disastrous encounters, many still held reservations for the black cloaks, thought a respect for the Guard could not be denied.

And after all, few were as trusting as Anna.

* * *

'You got him?'

'Yep,' Hestus grunted, as he took on the heavy weight of his fallen brother from the Battlemaster's grasp, 'I got him.'

Silently, the line receded, sending the Guardsman upwards for the roof, and the Omen that had just returned to receive it's mournful cargo.

'Rest easy brother,' Varro whispered, as Hestus disappeared from his sight, with the fallen Junius upon his back, 'may the Great Father watch over you upon your final journey, and may we meet again at the table of our forefathers.'

He was only replied by silence, and the slight scuff of stone, somewhere off at his rear.

'Cover,' he snapped immediately, lowering himself into a crouch, whilst Hestus and Marnus both proceeded to insert themselves through the open window, placing themselves at the corners of the alley that continued to lead away into the darkened interiors of Castle Entractus. A torch, somewhere out of their line of sight, was throwing up distinct shadows that were growing larger with every second.

'Better hustle up,' Tullius whispered over the comms, 'Storm Node's going haywire up here; you're going to have some real unpleasant company soon if you don't get a move on.'

'Move it,' Varro instructed, 'wounded first.'

Despite his injuries, Quintus was the first out into open air, snagging the magnetized line with his remaining hand and guiding it carefully into the mag-locked tactical belt, before he began his own ascent up the wall, with the strong locks between his belt and dropline permitting the release of his hand from the line for the next step upward.

With two hands available to others present though, the following extraction was one of extreme haste as the survivors filed out of the window in rapid order, with the fear of another brutal battle overriding the queasy fear of gravity.

Unfortunately, it still wasn't fast enough, as someone began to round the corner, leaving Varrow with little alternative but to ingloriously throw himself out the window with the crippled Anna in tow, as he snagged the iron grasp provided by Marnus, preventing the pair from a rapid descent downwards, toward the rocks.

'Whatever you do,' Anna whispered from below, or maybe hissed through the pain in her mauled limb, 'please don't let go.'

'I won't be the one letting go,' Varro wheezed softly, as Marnus' hold continued to constrict itself around the bloody stump that was the Battlemaster's right hand, 'you hear that Marnus?'

As he said the words though, the voices down the hall abruptly ceased. There was no possibility that they had heard the Battlemaster, not with his helm sealed, but instincts around hunting predators had taught Varro enough to know that they were closing on something with interest.

Immediately, as best he could with both arms occupied holding himself and Anna, Varro walked himself horizontally along the wall, stabbing his boots into the stone as best he could, until the chain that the two shadows and Princess composed was aligned in a rough four o'clock formation in relation to the window, just in time, as an unwitting head snaked itself out the window.

'Anything?' a hushed voice, by human standards at least, echoed from beyond the stone.

'Nothing,' the observer stated, as he peered downwards, scanning the courtyard below for any sign of his quarry, These guys don't fight like regulars; we would have found them by now otherwise.'

Unused to the vertical movement available to the Guard, ignorance would have clearly worked in the Shadows' favor, if it weren't for the small and insignificant fly that plagued the man of the South.

Unthinkingly, he swatted at the nimble nuisance as it glided off to his left...

He saw the three 'gargoyles' plastered against the wall, and had enough wits to recall that such had never been installed upon Entracus' walls in his many years, before a weight plunged into the back of his outstretched head. Something sharp cut his vocal cords, killing the warning shout before it had met an ear, before he found the flagstones below rushing up to meet his gaze.

* * *

'Not as clean as I would have liked, Regius,' Varro muttered gently, as he heaved Anna's hands upward to be seized by the Guardsman who hung directly above the window frame, 'but then again...'

'Nunquam Paenitere, right, Varro?' the reply came from the inverted Guardsman. He had yet to fully grasp Anna with two hands, rather, utilizing one to continue to sweep the corridor with a hellfire pistol, until he was satisfied that the sharpshooter's partner was long gone.

'Kind of expected more from a possessed,' he quipped, before something over the comms evidently shut him up. Anna, on the other hand, having lost her comm bead amid times unconscious, could only fathom a guess that whatever 'it' was, but one fact was clear: what was about to follow would be bad.

Throwing the threat of fast movement into the winds, Regius grabbed her about the wrists, and was quietly reeled upward; by the strange automated systems of the Guard, or by brute manpower, Anna did not know.

What was undoubtedly more important though, was the fact that, as she was pulled back over onto the solid ground, of the tower roof, a new sun seemed to have risen at sometime barely past midnight.

A sun that was barely ten meters from her eyes.

She had enough time to recognize the signature, leathery, beaten wings that seemed to span the skyline, before a force cannoned into her, sending both guilty Guardsman and Anna off the roof, onto the stone below.

* * *

'Anna?' Someone was standing over her, that was for certain. If they were attempting resuscitation, or hammering her into the floor though, that was another question. 'You okay?'

Judging from how her spluttered cough was enough to halt the medical treatment suitable for a titan, Anna could guess that such was all they needed, though memory had not faded of what she had just seen.

'Was that a...' she couldn't get any further amidst her hacking, but she needed little else to convey a message.

'Yes,' Varro's voice echoed in her head, 'you seem to attract Wyverns you know? Like a tied up Turngart waiting for a pack of Maakar.'

With no idea of the food chains that existed on foreign worlds, like many of the Guard's jokes, the humor fell flat on Anna.

Then again, even if she had understood it, the situation would have probably killed any laughter they could muster.

'Where's Kristoff?' she asked, still somewhat dazed by the impact, despite the cushioning effect of a carapace encased Guardsman to absorb the fall.

'He's still on board Tullius' Omen,' Regius informed her, his rifle still raised at some target beyond her restricted line of sight from the ground, 'same as Henrik and Quintus. Rest of us are, well, you know...present and surrounded, again.'

'What?' Jerking herself upright to a pounding pain in her skull, Anna wasn't entirely sure as to how she was meant to take the Guardsman's words, until her vision cleared enough to bear witness to a sea of white filling her sight, as the entirety of Entracus' garrison filed out in rapid order to greet them once again. Only, she had time to grimly realize, this time, out in the open, there would be no corridors to limit the rifles presented to their faces.

This time, there would be no wounds left, only sheer overkill.

'Trust the South to have a Wyvern of all places,' Varro hissed, twirling a pistol out of it's holster, into his remaining hand, 'I think that that confirms it; that bastard Torben's with the son of a bitch.'

Anna wasn't entirely sure as to what part of having a demon in one's lands played in the Guard's brutal, split second trial of an entire nation, and how such had been avoided in her own case, but she quickly dismissed the doubt. Frankly, it wouldn't have surprised her to know that Hans wasn't the only member of his family to resort to...morally questionable means of subjugation. And a King who let his brother torture someone for their own amusement; he had to have gone somewhere down the insane route, right?

Then again, that someone was one who had foiled a plot to technically double the South's fledging empire, not to mention humiliated their royal family.

'Am I the only one who's wondering why we're not dead yet?' she asked coolly, trying to make sense of the gravity of their situation, as the Titulians around her continued to keep their rifles raised to the numerous opponents that were flooding the courtyard. Having only just recovered from the next bout of unconsciousness, Anna had only just realized that they were in fact at the very center of the open space, with the foot of the last tower they'd ascended being buried in rubble with every passing minute. Now though, it seemed the Guards' decision to drag her to a safer location had somewhat backfired, and fatally.

At best, trapped out in the open, they'd probably take twenty with them, and then be obliterated by the return salvo, if the South chose to let them fire first.

'Maybe you're the reason,' Varro mused, as a familiar figure stepped through the parting ranks, a blade hefted in one hand, and a flintlock hanging loosely in the other.

'I'll give you one chance to surrender, Anna,' Hans called over the vast space that divided the two incredibly mismatched parties, 'one chance only.'

'Yep, you're the reason,' the Battlemaster hissed.

What followed next took everyone, no more so than Anna herself, completely by surprise.

In a flash of motion, Varro had heaved Anna off the floor and locked his handless arm about her throat, before the grip of a hellfire pistol filled his remaining hand.

'Stay right where you are,' he roared over the wind, 'or I swear, on the graves of the Fallen, I'll blow her head off!'

'Varro, what the hell are you doing?' Anna hissed, her broken leg buckling under the sudden movement, though the Guardsman's grasp did not falter, leaving her hung like a ragdoll on a single leg, held up only by the stump of a hand that ran painfully as an iron bar across her neck.

'Shut up,' the Battlemaster roared, before he rammed the barrel of the pistol against the side of her throat, as he addressed the larger crowd of onlookers, 'you put your arms down, or I'll paint the wall with her head...Stay the hell back!'

The last command was vehemently directed at the far right wing of the Southern line, as the company's drummer beat one step too far before he caught the eye of his officer. Such absolute adherence to discipline was quickly proving to be a cause for confusion amongst the regulars of the South; having simply drilled maneuvers, fire followed by reload, all their lives, the introduction of a hostage scenario onto a battlefield had well and truly thrown that experience down a gutter, as they looked on at their officers, waiting for some direction.

Their seniors themselves knew little better. It would have been both a faithful, and incredibly foolish man who entrusted the accuracy of his men in this kind of situation, when the greatest experience they had was simply blasting away at a solid wall of opposing bodies, until one side was completely and utter obliterated.

To apply the same concept here, with someone whose capture was paramount, at least to their Prince, in the firing line, would undoubtedly end in collateral damage.

Hans though, simply smiled.

'Take aim men,' he called crisply, as he drew up his own pistol to fire, 'I just wanted to kill her myself.'

At the first indication of his rising flintlock, Regius and Marnus had already shifted their rifles to bear upon the Prince, but the loyalty of the Legionnaires, or at least those that currently surrounded him, was admirable, if only it wasn't detrimental to the Guardsmens' efforts to put down the threat. Bullets tore through corpses, never reaching their target, before Hans pulled the trigger, striking the flint at the top of his leveled sights, and igniting the black powder within the barrel of pistol.

Realizing his bad misjudgement too late, and only able to curse the Prince's name to the heavens above, Varro spun himself, and the crippled Anna, about as he blazed a trail of unaimed hellfire, already knowing he had missed his mark, before something punched through his back, and the cobblestones below raced to meet his gaze.

* * *

'Take aim!' Hans was bellowing above the storm of gunfire, as his retinue fell around him, 'take aim and fire at will!'

Already knowing he'd missed his mark, thanks to the blasted black cloak, regardless of his failed ruse, Hans finished pulling a new bullet from his coat to fill his emptied pistol when an fog descended upon the battlefield in the blink an eye. A thick, white, choking fog that stung his lungs with every breath.

'By God, what is that?' Someone off to his right screamed, before the voice disintegrated into a cacophony of hacking coughs as the smoke reached more distant observers. For Hans himself, he could only guess it was the very breath of the devil, for nothing natural could accomplish what had just shielded the small company from hostile eyes...

He realized, with his eyesight clouding with tears, and half bent over, hacking out his guts, that in the midst of the fog, the damned girl and the five blasted Guardsmen were no longer to be seen.

'Open fire,' he gagged, wiping away the tears that sprang to his eyes, 'open fire now!'

Someone acknowledged the order, only, it wasn't the white clothed men around him.

* * *

'What the heck,' Anna screamed as her lungs burned, 'was that?!'

'You mean the smoke screen,' Regius spat, 'or Varro's little stunt?'

Anna was on the verge of bellowing her assent to both accounts, when another hacking cough halted any cognitive sound from leaving her throat. Hestus didn't halt his stride amid the noise, continuing to unceremoniously drag Anna along the floor, whilst Marnus and Tarus hoisted up the fallen Battlemaster, stringing an arm over each of their shoulders, even as Regius continued to blast away into the thick cloud that shrouded the company.

Though she was unable to fully register the volley of firepower's effect through both the smoke, and tearing eyes, judging by the screams of pain further into the mist, the Guardsman's rounds had undoubtedly made contact with at least a half dozen bodies. Then again, the achievement was somewhat dampened by the presence of the Titulian's respirator and faceplate that filtered the detrimental effects of the smoke from his body, along with the thermal visor that was built into the lenses of the helmet.

The Southern forces might as well have had been lit up in broad daylight with blazing red markers painted across their backs, when their numbers began to fall under the hail of hellfire.

Needless to say, with no shortage of targets to down, it wasn't long before the rifle clicked dry.

'Empty,' Regius called, 'cover.'

Immediately, a barrel was over Anna's head, as Hestus blazed away with a pistol gripped in his right hand; his left still gripped tightly in a fist around the fabric that covered Anna's left shoulder. After everything she'd been through with the Guardsmen, she shouldn't have expected much more care. Still though, the uneven surface of the cobble stones were doing few favors for her loose leg, and Anna bit deep into her lip, trying to quell the pain with another, similar sensation to focus on.

'Reload,' the unburdened Guardsman instructed again, over the storm of chaos, 'Covering now.'

At that, Hestus simply hit the ejection pad built into the side of the pistol, allowing the nearly spent magazine to drop away against the stone, before he slammed another case into the hungry pistol. In the same moment, Regius resumed his torrential assault, ripping through at least a dozen more with a fully automatic burst of firepower.

Abruptly, Anna's backside hit something hard and vertically aligned, before she was dragged upwards, still unable to see where she was going.

'No, don't...'

She was unable to finish off the plea before her damaged leg hit the steps. The pain was enough to induce a scream that bit through the cold air, before a savage bite into her lower lip was able to quell the action.

Nevertheless, she guessed it was too late, as someone who had either recovered from, or had never been exposed to the full effects of the incapacitating gas, screamed an instruction to fire on the source of the sound. A second later, and the air was alive with rounds, most of which rippling off the stone walls that were passing by her as she was continuously dragged backwards.

Abruptly, the grip around her shoulder was released, and she tumbled back, crashing hard against the stone flooring, only to realize that the same fate had befallen the rather impassioned Hestus, as he thundered against the wall at his back, a hand clutching a new, red opening in his own shoulder. Dimly, Anna registered that she had in fact been taken into another one of Entracus' defensive towers, though this one was hardly attached to the rest of the complex: it was more or less a lone watch tower that presided over the cliffs, carrying only a small garrison that promptly charged down a stairwell to her right, only to run directly into the sights of a hellfire pistol. A moment later, and the small group of men had become an uncoordinated heap of twisted limbs and broken flesh, torn apart by the short burst of Hestus' hellfire.

'You alright?' Anna asked, clawing at the ground as she tried to move toward the injured Guardsman without the aid of a leg. His only reply was a grim shrug.

'There's been worse,' he stated gruffly.

'Clear the damn way!' A voice roared from behind her back, with such ferocity that she nearly jumped from her skin, 'Clear the way!'

Hurriedly, Anna dug deep, steeling herself for the next inevitable bout of agony, before she crawled forward as fast as she could, just in time, as a trio of black cloaked figures ambled through the doorway, with one of their number slung between his two brothers. They were followed in short order by the last of their number, who only paused to release the last dregs of his rifle upon the surviving unfortunates beyond the tower's walls, before finally deciding to make use of the protection provided by stone.

'How bad is it?' Marnus demanded, as they 'gently' set their wounded compatriot against the wall.

Tarus could only grunt a reply, still somewhat bound in his vocabulary by a damaged jaw line, but the message was clear; 'bad' was putting it gravely lightly.

'We need to get the plate off to seal that,' Hestus commented, still wheezing at his latest wound, 'he shouldn't be wheezing like that: the round must have damaged the augmentic.'

'Alright,' Marnus breathed, 'I'll need an extra set of hands...'

'Smoke is clearing!' Regius warned suddenly, 'They're regrouping for the assault!'

'Right,' Marnus hissed, still trying to make some sense of a plan, 'can someone give me a decent show of covering fire, and I'll see what I can do; Anna, get over here, I'm going to need a hand.'

It felt somewhat strange to be giving orders to his technical commanding officer of all people, but truth be told, the Guard command structure was flexible to say the least, and with Tarus incapable of most speech, alongside Varro's critical condition, it was only prudent to direct fireteam command to the squad's healer.

That, and the need to kill something in retaliation for their four brothers, was more than sufficient to send the remaining three Guardsmen into a run, with Tarus opting to remain by the doorway, whilst Hestus and Regius took off up the stairs at a run, seeking both the higher ground, and anyone too terrified to reveal their presence to the Guardsmen up until now. Meanwhile, accepting a cold hand from Marnus, Anna was finally able to tow herself beside the Battlemaster who had just opted to use her as a human shield.

It was only then that she realized that Varro's back was rent with holes; some encased in metal, having been stopped by the thinner carapace at the Guardsman's back, but some ominously leaking black fluid, and in that moment, she knew she would have been dead without the Guardsman's act to turn around, and take the rounds meant for her own self. It had nearly given her a shock at first, to discover a Titulian's blood colour was indeed the same shade as their cloak, but then again, she did find she had to constantly remind herself that the Guardsmen, for all their humanity, were not indeed the same species as her own.

However, though she'd drawn blood on the training floor, Anna had never witnessed what lay beneath the cold carapace when it was removed. The Titulians never seemed to leave their suits after all, even in the safety of Abaddon. Not even to reveal what lay beneath the helm.

What was finally revealed when Marnus abruptly tugged the rear plate of armor away was enough to freeze her blood cold.

Varro's skin, if one could call it such, was a patchwork. Pale, discoloured, and gaunt, but most disturbingly, only placed at irregular intervals across his being. The spaces between such were simply filled by steel, or some other material she had never set her eyes upon. Truth be told, there seemed to be more steel than dead flesh that composed the Fifty Ninth's Battlemaster.

'Whatever happens,' Marnus whispered softly, barely audible over the raging gun battle behind him, 'do not tell anyone of what you see here today.'

Confused to no small degree, Anna could only nod her head as she continued to take in what lay behind the concealing plate, when she saw Marnus' hands, and the wound he was starting to take a blade to.

What she had dismissed earlier as a bump in the flesh, likely attributed to a bone beneath, was in fact a seething mound of monsters. Scarab-like creatures festered over one another, heaping over the bloody wound like an ant hill. Some were already upon Marnus' hands as he worked.

Her skin crawled, until Anna realized that her own palm was encased in the metallic monstrosities, having placed it upon another mound of the creatures that polluted the Battlemaster's body.

She was unable to suppress a shriek.

'Calm it,' Marnus instructed uncaringly, 'they're just nanites: they might be all that will keep him alive right now.'

'What are they?'

'Nanites,' the Guardsman repeated, as if it answered all her questions, before he softened, 'they're deployed by the suit when the user sustains physical trauma: they constantly deploy stimulants and antiseptics to injuries, and try and knit them back together, unless it's like this.'

He groaned again in frustration at failure in his efforts.

'I need you to hold down here,' he gestured, pointing directly beside the pile of scarabs he was digging into, 'the round's cut an artery, and this blood is really starting to piss me off.'

He indicated the pool of welling, black fluid that permitted no visibility, and Anna could see his point. It was fairly interesting to note, despite the gravity of the situation, that the 'nanites' were actually parting to admit Marnus' work. If only the blood would do so.

Tentatively, Anna placed her hands down where she had been instructed to do so. Her skin chilled at the very touch of Varro's flesh; it was as if someone had skinned a man, placed the grisly trophy in a freezer, and then grafted it onto the Guardsman's back. It simply did not feel real; artificial in nature, almost, and very, very alien.

And then there was the issue of the bug like creatures crawling over her hands, and sending chills up her spine.

'Damnit Anna,' the healer hissed, as he rummaged through a bag with one bloody hand, 'push harder, you need to divert the damn blood supply.'

Abandoning her squeamishness as best she could, Anna threw her entire body weight onto her hands. Not that it was saying much by a Guardsman's standards, but slowly, bit by bit, and with the combined efforts of the nanites, the blood pool began to recover from every wipe at a slowing rate.

When she turned over to face Marnus again though, the bulge in her eyes must have been obvious for the world to see, given the audible groan from Marnus' lips. Then again, it wasn't every day that someone saw a 'doctor' hefting the equivalent of a surgical sized blowtorch in his hands, test firing it above the unsuspecting patient.

'You don't know jack about augmentics, so don't give me that,' he shot. Then, without much warning, he lowered the tip into the wound, and fired.

* * *

Kristoff was going to be sick.

There was no doubt about it. It was bad enough when they had strapped him into a bird that, for all he knew, could have rocketed around the globe in a day, without any preparation whatsoever. Now, he, and an equally unprepared Henrik, were tumbling through the air, unrestrained, and on the most violent journey in the recent history of the Fifty Ninth's deployments, as Tullius threw the craft into stunt after stunt, keeping them barely one step ahead of their pursuer with every passing second.

Kristoff Bjorgman had never thought he'd live to see the day a legend walked out of a fairy story, and into reality. He had never dreamed, or rather endured a nightmare wherein he'd see the same monster twice.

And now it was trying to kill them. Again.

'Hold on fellas,' Tullius shouted from the cockpit, 'this is going to get rough.'

As if it wasn't rough already.

That was at least until Kristoff found himself seeing stars again, upon Tullius' sudden initiation of a barrel roll that took the spiraling Omen under the bridge of Castle Entracus, up into the sky, and flickering past a tower filled to the brim of sentries terrified of what they had just witnessed.

'Can't you just hit the frigging invisibility, or whatever, and slip away?!' Henrik called, as he clung for dear life onto a bar.

'It's an optical cloak,' the pilot's voice shot back, 'You can still smell us, and Wyverns have a very good sense of smell. In fact...'

Tullius' voice abruptly broke off, as he jerked the craft to the right in a rapid turn away from an oncoming tower. Again, the lack of any warning did not serve the pair of humans in the hold to any grave extent, as their holds on tentative supports were tested once again.

The extensive employment of metallic alloys amongst the Omen's design, and telling lack of any softening fabrics to line it's interior, did not help to any great regard in the matter of holding on, if only providing an incentive to hold on for dear life.

Abruptly, the Omen flattened out it's rapid ascent, providing a fairly even ground to fall back on, giving the pair enough time to buckle themselves back in.

'Omen to ground team,' Tullius was roaring at his console, 'come in ground team. Wraith, do you acknowledge?'

'Wraith is in critical condition,' a voice cracked back, 'we need an extract right now, Tullius!'

'Standby,' the Raven snapped back, hurtling the Omen into another roll as he did so, 'Wyvern is still engaging, and locked on my tail; trying to break contact now.'

'ETA?'

Tullius was able to spare a moment away from his flightpath to check the target distance between himself and his rather agile, organic opponent. From the fact that range had actually dropped since he'd last checked, evasion was becoming less and less viable.

'Um, I'll get back to you on that,' he muttered.

* * *

'You're kidding me, right,' Marnus hissed down the feed, as he leaned himself out the open doorway, a rifle in hand, 'we're going to get overrun down here...Anna! Duck and cover! Don't linger!'

The warning was issued in the nick of time, as Anna curled herself back behind stone, just in time, as the next volley of firepower hit the tower.

After experiencing the far more independent tactics of the Guard, the harsh discipline of the World's old militaries were once more working to their benefit. With each command, from the order to fire, to even the obscene necessities such as to drop to one's knee and reload an empty rifle, being bellowed out by commanders, the South were practically providing an advance warning system for the Guard, keeping their heads attached, whilst they blazed a path of blood through the ranks between salvos.

Or at least, four black cloaks were, whilst the other two lay against the stone wall, one semi conscious, swimming in drugs and pain, whilst the other lay nestled beside an opening their brother had blown through the lower wall, providing a firing port for someone with only a single functional leg.

Even if she had been able to aim properly down the sights, rather than blast aimlessly at the advancing regulars, Anna had severe doubts if she could actually sight the weapon properly. Training had been against a foe that was not human, and now, she was starting to have severe doubts as to if she could pull the trigger when the push came to shove.

Maybe if the upstart piece of dung rounded the corner, but if it were anyone else...

For now, she simply had to contend herself with suppressive barrage after suppressive barrage, thankful somewhat for the lack of knowledge as to the results of each shot as she fired blindly around the corner.

'For the record,' a hoarse voice from her side sounded, 'you picked a hell of a maniac for a soul mate.'

'No kidding,' she shot back, before she remembered who she was talking to, 'thanks by the way, for you know, saving me after, you know.'

She only got a groan in reply.

'It was a fair try,' he spat in retaliation, before he rubbed his cut up back in agony. He'd halted his hacking ever since Marnus had repaired his own augmentic lung, but field repairs were always shoddy to say the least, and blood continued to trickle from his the edge of his lips, 'but I'd get over that killer's block right about now.'

Anna could only carry her head in an empty palm, wondering just how on Earth he had known. Then again, he was a Battlemaster.

'I just like to think of it as, well, only one of you will leave the field alive: you don't kill them, they most certainly will kill you.'

'Is that supposed to help?'

'Food for thought,' Varro finished, before he glanced casually over her shoulder. 'and you might want to consider that very soon.

With that, he pulled her as far back as he could from a seated position, whilst he blazed a trail of hellfire down the corridor, straight into the surprised white coat who had burst through the doorway amid one of Tarus' inevitable reloads. The cloth proved little better than paper in protecting the man's life, as the rounds ripped through his being, dropping him to the ground in the blink of an eye, all the while showering his allies in a rain of gore.

Still they charged forward, supported by the guns of at least three hundred men; the lead company of men, each armed with a loaded musket and bayonet attached to the rifle, speeding through the rain of firepower that awaited them at the door, straight into a furious Tarus and Marnus.

The second man was already turning to face the direction of the shots that had felled his friend, when the black cloaked warriors beset him from the rear; a blade tearing through fabric and skin, and sending him to the ground, silent as he fell.

Three more men had fallen before the men of the South had even realized they were being attacked by on both flanks. Digging deep, entrusting their discipline and numbers over fear of the killers, they charged forward once more, in one collective mass.

The sheer mass of bodies was enough to drive Tarus and Marnus back from the doorway, though they never moved more than a meter from the corner, refusing to allow the enemy to bring their muskets to bear in the narrow halls.

Unfortunately though, such also left their two wounded allies at the mercy of those who chose to charge left upon entering the tower.

Well, maybe helplessness was not the correct term to employ, particularly when one of the two in question was a veteran of a hundred years of war.

He was grounded, but his aim was unfaltering, as the pistol continued to drop men where they stood, littering the hall with an uncountable number of corpses. When the pistol clicked dry, the Guardsman simply turned to his equally numerous blades, drawing them one after another, sometimes even three at a time, before he sent them hurtling down the passageway, sinking into beating hearts, legs, arms, and heads.

The only problem was that Anna was between the grounded Battlemaster and the oncoming horde.

Thankfully, the lead man who actually made it past the lethal gauntlet of projectiles had long fired his rifle, though the fact that he still wielded the bayonet like a pike certainly did not remove his status as a threat.

'Anna,' Varro prompted, trying to incite some motion in the figure that also lay against the wall beside him, before the screaming idiot gutted the two of them, 'Anna, anytime now.'

The man was almost upon them.

'Anna!'

The bayonet came down, only for the man to the quickly follow, toppling into the floor in a twisted pile of limbs, with a matt silver blade in his chest.

'I'm sorry Varro,' Anna cringed, as the Blademaster replaced the thrown blade in his hands with another in the blink of an eye, 'I just...they're people...'

'People trying to kill us,' he added dryly, 'here comes another.'

This time, there was no hesitation, at least on the reply to the savage downward stroke. Hardly expecting Anna to produce a dagger to combat the long rifle, and downed as she already was, the Southern soldier simply opted to plunge the musket downward like a spear, until Anna's light sweep caught the tip of the off balance bayonet, and redirected it harmlessly into the ground.

Still though, she hesitated to deal the killing blow, at least until the man recovered his wits, in time to draw back for another lethal blow. This time, the blade never made contact, as the short sword was driven into his left elbow, halting the downward movement of the rifle in the moment, before Anna was able to finally disarm the persistent man with a second stroke to his trigger hand, causing the wooden instrument to clattered loudly against the cobbled floor.

For a moment, she was tempted to believe it could end there. That was until the man, furious at the prospect of being so easily bested by a woman barely half his age, threw himself downward, taking advantage of that hesitant glance in her eyes. His bloody hands coiled around her throat, about to throttle the life from her frail body, when a blade had appeared in his throat.

Eyes still twitching too and fro, mouth agape at the horrific events that had just befallen him, still unable to understand how the black cloaked figure had impaled him with such casual ease, the man's grip loosened, before he crashed backwards, wheezing blood through the widening opening in his neck.

'Never hesitate,' Varro finished for her, flicking the blood from the honed instrument, 'hesitation will be the your killer. Tullius? What's that ETA?'

* * *

'Landing isn't possible right now, Wraith,' the Raven shot down his comm bead, as he tried to level out his plunging craft, 'this guy is really starting to piss me off.'

'Well then drop the flight suits out by drop pod,' Varro hissed back down the feed.

'Auto loaders are offline,' Tullius replied, risking a glance back at his ravaged craft, 'damage extensive.'

'Then get Quintus to do it.'

'He's...' Frankly, Tullius was fairly uncertain as to how he was going to convey the Guardsman's concussion and unconsciousness, after a heavy impact against the hull with his skull. 'He's taking a nap.'

Silence was the only thing that replied him, before the Raven realized that the slumbering Guardsman was not the only occupant of his craft's cargo hold.

'You know, I'll get back to you on that. Kristoff!' He called back, snapping off the comm bead as he did so with a thought, 'I need you to unbuckle: you need to load up the jump gear for the lads below.'

'What?!' Came the inevitable reply.

'The frames they strapped to themselves before diving out of the Omen at thirty thousand feet: can you get them stowed away into drop pod B-One? I'm allowing manual access now...'

'Could you repeat that,' a shaky voice returned, 'like, step by step?'

It had only just occurred to the piloting Raven that his current 'hands' in the crew bay had virtually no experience in the field of manual gear deployment.

'Shit,' he hissed to himself, praying for something to work in his second, uncooperating iron beast. A bird did not easily break to a new master, in a hurry, particularly if he had just lost his last one to the same beast that hunted him now. It had only been the very fact that Elegus had been killed in orbit, like so many, that Omen Seventeen had been left without it's piloting Raven, leaving Tullius to fill his place once again in the cockpit.

Unfortunately, with each Raven learning his craft's tweaks and habits, like the personality of a brother, only knowledgable over years of flight time, Tullius was having a rather hard time to adjust within a dogfight taking place barely hours after stepping into the pilot's seat once more.

Flipping up a safety catch, before he flipped the switch beneath, Tullius turned his attention back to directing the pair of humans who would have to fill his stead whilst he kept the Wyvern honest.

'Alright,' he called back, 'did a large, metal canister just lower itself onto the floor?'

* * *

To call it a 'canister' was putting things lightly to say the least. The entity that had just appeared in their midst was easily the size of his sledge, if one were to realign it vertically. Armor plated, octagonal in design, and of course, like all equipment in the Guard, matted black, it took a few moments for Kristoff to realize that it was actually another of the same pods that he and Anna had first come across upon heading North, though this one lacked the open access to the interior it's brethren had previously displayed.

'You need to pull the red lever on the panel closest to the cockpit to open the pod,' the voice instructed once again, 'you see it?'

'Hang on,' Kristoff muttered fumbling with the bar he had thrown down upon his lap to prevent another flight around the Omen's interior, 'what's on the panel?'

'A dull, red piece of metal,' Tullius repeated, 'and don't get out yet.'

Kristoff was on the verge of wasting his breath to enquire the reason for the last direction, before Tullius answered the question with a shuddering spin that shifted the Omen like a clock's hand several times over, bringing them narrowly out of the line of fire as the Wyvern opened it's jaws again, belching another jet of flame across the night's sky.

'Now!' At the command, the safety harnesses, seemingly by their own will, lifted to permit the freedom of movement for both Kristoff and Henrik, as they tumbled out of their seats, eager to get whatever needed to be done completed, before the mad Raven decided to send them the wrong way again. In fact, the only seat that actually remained locked at the Raven's call was Quintus', as the unconscious Guardsman's head continued to rock gently to and fro, in a deep slumber.

Scrambling over fallen gear, Kristoff threw himself at the drop pod's far side, hands skittering over it's plate, in search of the crimson handle.

It was more by accident than actual observation that he finally ended up locating the infuriating catch, but with a tug, the iron door slid upwards and away, revealing the darkened interior of the crypt like pod.

'Got it!' he reported triumphantly, before another explosion rocked the craft, sending him from his feet again.

'Excellent,' the Raven spat dryly, 'now get the jump suits in there: you see the panels lining the Omen's walls? Try looking down: there's a yellow light on each of them.'

Hazily, Kristoff managed to crane his battered head out of the ground, grimly noting that there was indeed a square, each roughly the size of the seat of Elsa's throne, visibly cut into the sections of the wall.

Truth be told, they were nearly invisible amid the shadows produced by the jump seats that lined the walls above them, if it hadn't been for the illuminating bulbs that continued to wink autonomously.

'You empty six of those panels,' Tullius instructed again, 'Six, you hear me? One for each person still on the ground. And you empty every single thing in there: you leave one piece and they're...'

Whatever grim fate the Raven had in mind was never made clear, as a bright light shone from the cockpit, before the Omen descended into another blazing fury of movement, threatening to rocket Kristoff into the ceiling again, had it not been for a sudden grab by Henrik, which arrested the mountain man to the ground before he could hit too many an obstacle.

'Thanks,' he mouthed, still trying to catch a breath, 'for that.'

'Your wife told me she'd have my head if anything happened to you,' the sergeant simply replied with a grin, 'so I can't say it was entirely out of the goodness of my heart, sir.'

'Is that so?' Kristoff asked, reciprocating the smile, before Tullius finally leveled out the Omen, dropping his face back into the cold floor.

From there, it was one mad rush to tear out the contents of each locker, and to cram it's various contents into the hungry pod. After clearing out his first one, and quickly scouring the emptied space for anything he'd missed, Kristoff hit his remaining packs with a vengence, already knowing what to account for in each one. Soon, he had hauled each piece, be it segments of a metallic frame, to the servos that connected them, to cold segments of fabric, out it's storage, and unceremoniously tossed it into the delivery pod.

'Good to go!' he called as Henrik finished his last delivery in an equally hastened manner, 'it's all stowed!'

'Get back into your seats then, you idiots!' The furious Raven bellowed back, 'I can't keep him off of us when we're leveled! Move it!'

Hurriedly, Kristoff tumbled into his chair, before the iron bar was locked over him, and the temptation to spill his guts returned, as the Omen lurched upwards, forming a perfect arch in the sky, before it began to plummet downwards once again.

'Legion team,' Tullius was saying over the comms, 'prep for delivery; package inbound, ETA thirty seconds. Clearing the deck; stand by for gun run.'

The Raven gunned his vessel forward like a hungry dog, swooping downwards for the speck of a Castle below without any care that he was about to tear at least a half kilometer into the ground if he hit it at his current speed, at least by Kristoff's estimates. Then, with only the agility a natural born bird could have achieved, the Omen's engines were realigned, setting the gunship into a shallow arch that straightened it up into a roughly horizontal approach, before the guns upon the vessel's prow spat flame and fire.

Unlike his old bird, which had been undergoing re fits at the time of the orbital ambush, Elegus' Omen had already reached a combat state, refurbished to act as a hunter killer of the sky. The resulting Viper batteries mounted beneath the short wings of the craft were somewhat restrictive in the targeting of massed numbers, but they certainly could take out a priority target, such as the blasted Wyvern at his back, if he could just turn the dogfight around, but for now at least, one of his weapons would find a use.

Thumbing off the safety, Tullius pulled down the trigger on the nose mounted Executioner, and refused to remove it, filling the airspace with a banshee's wail, as the chaingun continued it's dreaded song, overpowering even the countless shrieks of the dying below.

Tullius was still gunning the Omen near it's top speed when he hit the release on the pod, sending it hurtling away into the vast abyss below before he was pulling away, lulling the furious creature at his back into yet another fruitless pursuit after a shadow of the night.

As he held on for dear life, Kristoff involuntarily gripped the steel bar with a single hand, whilst his other grasped the bottom of the seat, praying for deliverance in the event the Wyvern finally caught up with them.

It was then that he realized that his lower hand had hit a bundle of fabric, inside the compartment beneath the chair. Unlike the rest of it's contents, this one had been strapped to the top of the small space.

Tentatively, he produced the roll of gear for the eye to see, eyes meeting contact with Henrik's, and just beginning to ponder as to how badly they had messed up.

* * *

'That's the pod; pumping smoke!'

This time, at at the suggestion of Varro, Anna shut her eyes, and dug deep into her lungs, holding her breath against the inevitable assault against her senses.

Unlike the previous incident, this time, a quick thinking Marnus had produced a piece of cloth for her use, ripped from the bodies of one of their felled attackers, and then wet with the strangely scented water that filled his canteen. Pulling the damp cloth over her face, Anna was able to breath to a reasonable degree, as the water served to filter the worst of the effects from her lungs.

Meanwhile, still lacking the same protection or knowledge available to the Guard, the Southern forces were, for all intents and purposes, blind, incapacitated, and ripe for a brutal, one sided slaughter.

Most didn't even spot the black cloaks gliding through the mist as they emerged from their stone haven, and proceeded to open fire at point blank range.

The use of high explosive hellfire practically amounted to an overkill, as they butchered their way to the smoking pod, embedded in a crater off on the courtyard's side.

Despite the speed at which he'd traveled, Tullius had nearly hit the tower dead on in the drop, with the valuable ordnance only scattering a bare dozen meters, flattening an odd few Legionnaires in the same act.

In fact, with such a minute distance to traverse, the three Guardsmen who had opted to join the breakout effort to reach the flightgear actually began to advance further than necessary, taking full advantage of the smoke whilst it lasted to thin the enemy as gravely as possible, at least until Varro decided to spare any further losses on the South's part.

'Alright lads, you had your fun,' he bellowed, his voice carrying clearly over the slaughter, 'now do your job.'

In the blink of an eye, discipline snapped into work, and the rough semi circle collapsed rapidly, falling back to the crater, before a quick burst of hellfire silenced the groans of the survivors, still trapped amid the broken stone.

A quick strip of the pod's interior quickly relayed the materials back to the tower, before Varro quickly realized the absence of one, rather important piece of gear.

'Tullius,' he began, 'can someone tell me where, in the living Storm, is the low altitude insertion gear?'

'The what?' Anna asked, trying to comprehend something from Varro's confounding words, and failing miserably at the effort.

'The deployment frames we use to land,' Marnus enunciated.

'Hitting the ground without those can be...problematic,' Varro finished, still pounding his head set for some response from the Raven, 'Tullius, come in: you missed our frigging landing gear!'

'Come again sir?' A voice broken by static replied, 'did I just hear you right?'

'Which idiot packed the frames?' The furious Battlemaster demanded, 'Which one?'

'You hear that, Henrik?' Tullius suddenly broke off, addressing someone who was not attached to the comm net, 'you and Kristoff better have a real good reason when they get back on board, 'cause I warn you, it ain't going to be pretty.'

'If we get back in one piece,' Varro fumed, 'alright, I'm setting an alternate landing zone. Sending now. Acknowledge.'

There was a brief pause, as the Raven registered the new data.

'That could be a one way trip, sir.'

'Anything else would certainly be. We'll see you there; ETA, five minutes.'

The acknowledgement light winked off on Varro's display, before the feed disintegrated, with Tullius evidently turning his attention back to his pursuer. Shrugging fatalistically, Varro began to fumble for the nearest set.

'Um,' Anna started, 'what did you mean by, 'alternate landing zone'?'

Varro just gave her a withering glance, evidently attributed to her association with the man who had just landed them in the current situation. Like always, whenever there was bad news, the Battlemaster tended to answer the question with a question, that in turn answered the original enquiry.

'How's your swimming?'

* * *

Not for the first time, Tullius looked back, and saw death once more.

He had to admit, the Wyvern that now hunted him was far from the usual Storm fodder that the denizens of the other realm deployed for him and his brothers to hunt. Regardless of every trick he'd tried so far, the monster had never been thrown off, never deceived, and never allowed him to turn the tables on the creature. Deactivating the cloak and removing the main source of smell from the Omen, taking the fight into the clouds, even bringing the dogfight amid Entracus' walls; all measures had failed.

Well, all except one.

It was a concept he'd never even been forced to resort to; rather, a maneuver Elegus had only related to him in the mess hall, after his Omen had come back, battered like it had just fallen into a trash compactor.

And now he was dead.

Then again, right now, Tullius had no doubt that, if he didn't try something that could kill him, he'd certainly join his Fallen brother. It was time to dare, or die.

Pulling his craft up into a vertical ascent, Tullius gunned the Omen upwards to it's very maximum speeds, drawing the persistent creature on his tail once more into a game of cat and mouse.

The largest problem he faced right now was undoubtedly the dulled, but visible, blue glow of the Omen's engines; typically shielded by the optical cloaking systems of the Omen, but that in turn was offset by his pursuer's uncanny capability to lock in on the source of the Helix gas emissions that bent light to shape the cloak. As a result, he was practically visible at all times to the Wyvern.

So the only option left would be a deception before the creature's very eyes. An aerial magic trick, if one were to call it such.

Setting the two seeker missiles underslung beneath the Omen's wings on a course trajectory that would see them collide dead ahead of himself in maybe thirty seconds after launch, the Raven punched his payloads loose.

In the same moment, he nosed the craft a fraction further upward, and cut the engines.

Down below, the Wyvern noticed no difference as the Omen plummeted from the sky, as it's eyes narrowed into slits, zeroing in on the two fleeing orbs of blue, undoubtedly still emanating from the Omen's propulsion systems.

With more than a little apprehension as the winged terror shot past them with meters to spare, still gunning blindly for the departing missiles, Tullius began the rearming sequence to fire the jets once more; a procedure that his instructor had always noted as one that a Raven were to enact on the ground.

The thunder of lighting returned to the two cylinders strapped along the length of the majestic aircraft, propelling the falling star out of it's uncontrolled descent, perfectly timed with the transport's entry into the cloud layer, limiting the chances of his foe detecting them too early.

Ignoring the protesting retches that were coming from the troop bay, Tullius pulled back the stick, slowly aligning his gunship to face the heavens, though, with his screen displaying a green mess of gibberish with damaged optical displays, he was forced to switch weapons to a manual override, as he waited for his target to present itself, through the clouds.

Not that it would actually have any part in the revealing, he noted to himself.

Thirty seconds were up, and a flash consumed the sky above him, and painted a glorious silhouette of a creature with a wingspan that easily dwarfed a house. It's neck was craned out, screaming in pain, sorrow, but most of all, the bitter rage of defeat, as it realized his ploy, all too late.

A fraction of a second later, and Tullius depressed the trigger in his hands. The two Vipers mounted beneath his wings, drawing on the undivided power of the Omen they were attached to, sang their piercing, wailing song, and each unleashed a bolt of light that tore through the heavens.

Something exploded above him, and the Wyvern's screams resounded across the battlefield. A fully charged round from a heavy Viper battery was an easy kill shot, particularly to the center of mass, and most certainly if there were two.

Tullius hammered the trigger twice more regardless. One for his brothers, and one for his old ship that the bastard's sibling had taken.

* * *

'This is,' Anna began, still leaning against a wall for support as she tied down another strap along her chest, 'a horrible, horrible idea.'

'You tend to think that a lot regarding my ideas,' Varro replied, grunting with the pressure exerted on his wounds, 'now shut up; make sure each of the straps are secure, otherwise you'll be meeting the ground a lot sooner than you want.'

Biting a lip in effort, Anna finished locking the last buckle at her waist, before a restraining hand was placed on her forearm. The frame was actually composed of a metal rectangular across her back, to which she was actually strapped to. From there though, four alloyed rods were extended from the plate; two at her arm level, and the others currently hung loosely, dangling to ankle height.

'Loosen the lower straps for now,' Hestus rumbled, 'you still need to synch up with the set.'

'Synch?'

'Technically speaking, auxiliaries should never employ neural guided wargear, but I think that this is a pretty good exception,' the Battlemaster explained, 'basically, there are no levers, or strings you need to pull: we basically link the frame to your nervous system.'

'How?' Anna asked, in no little disbelief.

'Synchronization needle into your lower spinal cord,' Hestus warned, a little too late as he readied the minute pin attached by wire to the rest of the frame, 'this might hurt.'

Anna didn't even bother with a retaliating comment this time, simply opting to brace for whatever hell was coming. Not that such made it anything less: a sharp instrument pinning itself into one's very nervous pathway tended to send numerous signals of pain to the brain.

'You guys are masochists or something,' she mouthed in agony, as she tried to steady herself on two legs, before recalling too late that she lacked any control over one. Thankfully, Tarus was there.

If half his mouth was gone, all the better, as the stark comment was lost amid another intelligible series of grunts. A minute later though, and the ill humored Guardsman's animosity was gone, as he hurriedly dragged her aside, before a blast consumed the area they had just occupied.

'Breached,' someone reported, surprisingly lively for the fact they had nearly just died, 'good to drop?'

'Good to drop,' a chorus of voices replied, amid a shuffle of feet. Rounding the corner with Tarus supporting her, what Anna found now was a sizable hole easily the size of Elsa's rather grumpy winter construct Marshmallow. A hole that led off the cliff, to the ocean, and the rocks below.

Dimly, Anna realized that the cloth mask had fallen from her mouth minutes past, yet the gas had yet to bring her into another fit. The rousing shout from beyond their tower was enough to confirm the fact that the crippling fog was finally dissipating, and with it went their only hope to continue to hold out against numbers that clearly expressed no hope for a Guard victory, let alone survival if they remained.

What concerned her most was that the most recent blast to rock the structure was actually the work of the Fifty Ninth, as Regius casually brushed the dust from his cloak. Frankly, she was unable to tell how knocking holes in their refuge was going to help them, until the Guard began to assume positions beside it.

'Come on,' Varro muttered, the comforting tone lost with his helmet's manipulation, and her lack of a comm bead, 'time to go.'

'Wait,' Anna protested, trying to buy some time, 'how do you, you know, work this thing in the first place?'

Varro glanced at her as if she was missing a head.

'The suit's a part of you now,' he replied, placing an arm on her shoulder, 'so you'd control it like any other limb. Just think fly.'

With that, the small unit charged onwards, with Tarus and Varro half helping, half dragging Anna along for their upcoming demise on the rocks below, when Hans broke down the doorway.

Flanked by at least a dozen Legionnaires, he was half expecting to find the last dregs of a desperate resistance, their backs to a wall, before he executed the one he loathed most. Instead, he found them practically committing suicide like lemmings, though one evidently was seeking to take some with him, as the Guardsman closest to the newest opening in the doorway spun about, and blasted in the face of man beside him, with a casual ease.

Hans was on the verge of opening fire on the fleeing titan when he spotted the familiar figure, strung between two others, as they herded her for the opening, and in that moment, he lowered the pistol to fire once more, vowing to find his mark.

Unfortunately for Hans, unfamiliar with the employment of delayed explosives in Guard hellfire grounds, he was placing the slight tip above the barrel to the strawberry blonde head when his falling compatriot's head detonated with the force of an avalanche. Fire burning his side, and with shrapnel and blood that was not his own piercing his own flesh, Hans was blasted against the wall, driving the pistol from his grip. A moment later, and the flintlock discharged, harmlessly propelling the metal ball into the stonewall beside the retreating trio, before they disappeared over the edge.

Ambling up to his feet, snatching up one of the dead Legionnaire's muskets from cold hands, Hans scrambled for the opening, somewhat praying to find some surge of vindication from the sight of their broken bodies on the rocks below, despite the fact he'd have played a smaller part in her demise than he'd intended.

* * *

As she swept downward, the only new sensation Anna could register was the absurd pain that was coursing through her mutilated leg. Unable to control it any further, as the rushing air thundered against her body from below, her leg was being snapped upwards at the knee, uncontrolled, and painfully torn out of it's socket as it rampaged through the air, snapping to and fro like a rag doll.

'Activate the suit, Anna!' Varro was screaming, 'Deploy in on my markl. Three.'

With the agony she was enduring, as she continued, hands splayed outward like the rest of the company in a spread eagled fashion, Anna wasn't even sure if she could continue like this for three more seconds.

'Two.'

It briefly occurred to Anna that she had never actually deployed the frame, and that there was no iron clad guarantee that thinking 'fly' would actually work. Panicked, the thought coursed through Anna's head, and nothing happened.

If she died, Anna promised, she was going to haunt Varro as long as the liar lived.

'One; concentrate on the synchronization point Anna. Mark.'

This time, the order to her newfound limb was a scream directed straight at the infuriating throb in her back, and in that moment, everything changed.

The rolled up fabric, stowed in each of the four metal limbs, ripped free from their restraints, and snapped into place, filling the spaces between each of the frames. A second later, and the upward pressure on her leg disappeared, as she found herself gliding forward like a bird she had always watched, but only dreamed of joining them in the sky.

She was unable to suppress the whoop of joy as she tucked herself further forward, sailing through the cold night's air.

Below, two shadows continued to plummet further, before they rolled in the sky, and hit their own frames, lurching upward as they did so with the rapid change in speed of their descent. Suddenly, her sight was filled by a familiar helm.

'Watch your angle of descent Anna,' Varro suggested, nodding in approval at her survival so far, 'otherwise you'll fall too quickly. You need to dive forward; like this.'

With that, he tilted his upper body downward, until he was now approaching the Earth at an angle that, if he hit the ground, ensured his head would be turned into a paste, but transformed the Guardsman into a rocket.

Tentatively, cautious that heading completely vertically would spell death on the rocks for her, Anna leaned forward ever so carefully, and felt the rush of air return to her face. Unlike before though, with her head leading the path through the air rather than her entire body, the rag doll effect did not return to plague her crippled leg.

All in all, it was perfect. Freedom in the sky couldn't have become a greater sense of liberation, if it weren't for the fact someone was still firing at them.

At this range, moving at this speed, Anna would have been shocked if anyone had been able to land a round, but the world would continue to amaze her as long as she lived.

Giving Entracus one final glance, the last sight of the stone bastion she was permitted was one of a familiar, dreaded face, snapping off one last round down below.

Though it would bypass the black cloaks by a mile, it was enough to incite one Guardsman above her, namely the muzzled Tarus, to turn about until he was facing the sky, and unleash the entirety of his last clip on the opening in the tower.

While Hans had the wits to dive for the ground, his allies were once more caught unawares of the danger below. Either that, or someone had selflessly placed their own life over their Prince's, throwing the man out of the way of fire.

Either way, the flash of fire, tinged with the telltale hue of blood, was enough to tell Anna that one more had paid the ultimate price for daring to oppose the Guard.

'How on Earth did you do that?' She asked, bewildered, eyes still cast upward to the commander of the Legion unit, before she recalled too late that any verbal communication from the injured Guardsman would likely remove the last sinews of flesh that held down his lower jaw to his face. Hastily, she turned back about to face the direction she was headed, and placing the hostile glare that pierced the back of her head away from her own sight. Strangely, it was Regius to answer for her.

'Part of standard drop training,' he called over the howling wind, as he glided beside Anna, 'and a lot of drops.'

'Alright people,' Varro shot at an equal volume, 'fall into formation: flight path to LZ is set. Spread out; I don't want any two Guardsmen going down in the same shot. Anna, just follow me.'

Without a helmet to reveal the advanced approach plan, Anna was left fairly in the dark, before the Battlemaster shot into view, and hurtled past her eyes, taking lead, even as the rest of the surviving company spread out until they were all roughly at the same altitude, and scattered over a space easily the size of Arendelle's fjord.

'Did you get the snake at least?' Anna quizzed, before she realized she was facing the wrong direction, with the grim faced commander of the Fireteam, marked with a cracked skull across his right pauldron, off on her left, rather than her right. 'Tarus: did you get Hans?'

She was only answered by a solitary shake of a head, and Anna was once more left cursing at fate. How was it that he had dodged death so many times even in the face of the Guard, and how had he come so close to ending her own countless times in a single evening?

The only explanation she could come up with was that whatever God presided over their futures seemed to have a plan for the Prince; a role to play in the near future.

At least, Anna hoped it was limited to the near future, and that his part in the grand plan would come to an end sooner, rather than later.

She couldn't dare to think of what would happen if he was to outlive them all.

Hell would probably fall, she decided, before Anna realized that Varro had been shouting some instruction at her for some time.

'...pull up, Anna, alright?'

'What?'

'On my mark,' the Guardsman repeated, hollering against the forces that tore against them as they shot forward, 'pull your upper body up, alright? Present the largest surface area available, and try not to hit the water head first, otherwise your absence of head gear is going to haunt you.'

'And how is that going to help?'

'It should slow you down,' the Guardsman replied. Truth be told, such did little to explain the very principles behind her current lifeline, but, without enough time for a lecture, Anna decided to simply place her trust in the Guardsman.

He hadn't gotten her killed so far, at least.

'Don't worry,' she called back with some confidence, 'I was born ready.'

'Great to know,' came the reply, 'mark.'

With that, Varro had disappeared from her sight, as he shot backwards, or rather, she continued to glide forward, whilst the Guardsmen pulled themselves back, slowing their descent as far as possible as they hurtled for the black mass below, completely discoloured in the lack of a moon.

In a somewhat belated response, Anna stretched her arms as far as she could, as she arched her back to the sky. Soon, the air blast had returned to the entirety of her form, before she felt the cold touch of the ocean under her feet as she slowed from the speed of a bullet.

She had enough time to recall that swimming was hardly her strong suit, when the traction of a foot against the water was enough to slow her lower half enough for everything above the waist to lurch forward, and slam into the water.

Thrashing about in the freezing cold, Anna hammered at the fluid around her, fighting to reach the surface as her lungs filled with the frigid liquid.

So much for the buoyancy of the frame, she cursed. If the air trapped by the fabric was meant to keep her afloat somehow, it was easily counteracted by the solid alloy frame, and too late, Anna was realizing that her earlier panicked motions had released the uplifting air bubbles, leaving her on an express elevator to the bottom of the ocean, as the pain in her crippled leg returned to hobble her movements.

Her last thoughts before the she descended for good below the waves was a question on her lips was as to why she was cursed to die alone once more, as she continued to sink into the dark.

* * *

'There she is!' someone called from the ramp, 'right there!'

The space the group of thrashing shadows were gesticulating at bore no better knowledge for Kristoff, as he tried to pierce the veiled shadows, constantly changing and tumbling with the waves. Try as he might, there was no sign of Anna to be seen.

Such held few bars for the Guardsmen though, as two thundered down the ramp once more, narrowly avoiding trampling one of their number in his attempts to heave himself clear of the water, before they leapt back into the freezing cold. Fairly soon, they too had disappeared from sight.

Only halting to drag a Guardsman with a damaged arm out, onto the angled ramp of the Omen as it continued to dip into and out of the raging tides, Kristoff was on the verge of following in suit, when a water spout erupted from the sea, twenty feet off the Omen's hovering body, as something broke the surface of the heaving waves.

Unaided by the opposing waves that continued to spit their fury against all shores of the Earth, it was a good minute before the disordered whirlwind of movements drew close enough for the eye to properly gauge that it was actually composed of two figures; each seemingly with only a single hand in use, with a small buoy held adrift at their backs...

'Throw out the bloody drop line, you idiot!' a familiar voice shot from afar, before another crashing wall of water dragged them beneath the surface once more. Behind him, someone was screaming directions at the sweating Raven, and Kristoff felt the craft lurch unexpectedly beneath himself, narrowly avoiding a fall into the drink before the Omen was sailing backwards, devouring the distance between the floundering company and their lifeline.

Sending out the wire offered by a soaked Regius, with his other hand in a vice lock around one of the two steel supports that tersely strung the lowered ramp to the Omen's upper side, Kristoff watched the end of the line sail over the precipice, and into the dark.

Then, without much warning, the slackened line was pulled taught, before a hand appeared over the edge.

Hurriedly, with Regius at his side, Kristoff seized the two Guardsmen with both hands, before they pulled back in unison, raising the drenched black cloaks back onto solid steel, along with their sodden load.

'Anna!' he cried instinctively, before he was roughly shouldered out of the way by an irate Tarus, as he stumbled up to his feet, dragging Anna forward, until she was off what was classified as the ramp of the Omen, and hence back on ground that was no longer angled downward, back toward the ocean below. Evidently, losing a jaw had been enough to constitute a bad day by the Guardsman's books.

Even so, reaching the relative safety of the Omen's troop bay did not spell a certainty of longevity, as Anna continued to lie, unmoving, on the cold floor.

'Is she breathing?' Varro asked, tumbling inside just as Tullius closed the Omen once more, 'Tarus?'

'Anna, talk to me,' Kristoff pleaded, before he'd lowered himself to the ground. He had never had a grave amount of experience around drowning, but he had enough of an idea to gather that it probably had something to do with the fact that her lungs were filled to the brim with fluid. Placing a hand upon her chest, and his other hand atop the first, Kristoff placed his full weight upon Anna's still body. A small trickle of fluid emerged from her lips, but little else.

'She's not breathing,' Varro hissed, once more stating the blindingly obvious, 'again, man.'

Again, nothing.

'Damnit Anna!' He screamed in desperation, hammering her chest like a piston, 'Come on!'

A cough, a splutter, and then a squeak of surprise as Kristoff wrapped his arms around the choking Anna, only to realize once more that some space could be useful for recovery, particularly after nearly drowning.

Wisely, Varro decided to give the two some berth at the same time, as he reached for a handle on the roof, only for his hand to pass through empty space. Or rather, he reflected grimly, eying the limb he had instinctively raised, the handle had passed through empty space; a hand that had since ceased to be.

Then again, it was nothing new. One all too often suffered the phantom limb syndrome in his line of work.

'You alright sir?' Tullius called from the cockpit, evidently catching the moment on one of the few functioning cameras. Varro merely waved him off with the same, shortened stump.

'Been worse, Raven,' he replied, before seizing the same grip with his remaining hand. True, it was not the one of his birth, and it was the fifth of it's kind since he'd lost the first, but it was still his own. 'Take us home.'

* * *

**Author's note: sorry I've been a bit behind with the posting guys. Once more, thanks again PascalDragon for your support; means a lot to have a guy at your back. Anyone else who's read this far; drop a review; constructive feedback is always appreciated. **

**Next chapter will be up early next week.**


	15. Deception and Misdirection

**Author's note: Sorry the update is a bit late, fellas. Anyway, thanks for all the support, and now sit back and enjoy. **

* * *

_If you find yourself marching to war, you have already lost. If you are already standing over your foe's corpse before the outbreak of war, I might just __respect you.  
__Tamrius Plenius; Battlemaster of the Fourth Shadow Guard_

* * *

It was a good twenty hours after the battered Omen's final approach when Anna's eyelids finally fluttered open.

'Can you please promise me you'll never do that again?' Elsa's voice echoed in her head, as she tried to rise off the cold gurney, 'you're getting too well acquainted with Death in these days, Anna.'

Anna was on the verge of drawing breath for a suitable understatement for a reply, when she was cut short by the bolt of pain surging through her mutilated leg, only to realize, upon dragging her body upright at the waist, that the bloody mess at the knee was gone, replaced by flesh as if the incident had never occurred.

'How long was I out?' she quizzed, in no little confusion, 'Where's Kristoff?'

'Over here,' a friendly voice chattered from the far line of beds. Unlike Anna, traces of the beating he'd sustained at the Legionnaires' hands remained, with the odd purpled mark underscoring his features, but for the most part, the blood was gone, and he looked to be on the road to recovery.

'You guys nearly gave me a heart attack when you came back the way you did,' Elsa said, clasping her sister's hand. Truth be told, finally subcumbing to the fatigue and toils of the night, Anna had shifted many a time between consciousness and cognitive behavior on the flight back. She had been in the latter state upon their return, prompting another rapid transfer to the Firebase's allocated medical bay for human personnel.

'No kidding,' another voice; this time a disembodied, chilling, and yet familiar example, added from the doorway, 'your sister nearly turned Abaddon into a tundra when she saw you.'

Shuffling herself backwards to obtain a glance at the newcomer, barely halting to consider the possibility that he had in fact been there all along, Anna found herself peering past her sister, to find a pair of red eyes, and a matted eagle with a blade clasped amid it's claws, staring back at her.

'That was nothing, Varro,' the Queen shot back lightly, 'and besides, I cleaned it up, right?'

''Cleaned' is quite a relative term,' Varro returned, as he tilted himself upright, away from the leaning position Titulians seemed all too fond of, before he started advancing down the long row of beds, 'Victus is still clearing ice crystals out of the damn monitors upstairs.'

'Did I miss something?' Anna asked innocently, before she realized the complete lack of necessity for the question. Varro only muttered something along the lines of a warning that the upper command deck was still a hazardous workplace thanks to a certain someone, before he sat down upon one of the many unoccupied gurneys that lined the long room.

'Legion is assembling for an after action report,' he voiced, dropping the light hearted demeanor he had approached them with, 'I was wondering if you'd care to grace us with your presence.'

'There'd be better examples of grace,' Anna mused softly, a smile touching the edges of her lips as the memory of her first steps beyond Arendelle's castle returned to mind. 'Sophistication' and 'grace' were not usually words one associated with Anna, after all.

'Speaking of which,' she piped up, 'just out of interest...'

'A dangerous pastime,' Varro commented softly, though he gestured for her to continue with a slight wave.

'...what did you do? It looks, well, you know, like a maniac didn't just try to saw it off a while back.'

At the words, Varro's neck straightened up slightly, as if the confusion beneath the helmet had suddenly cleared in an instant. Anna was still more than a little interested as to what lay beneath that helmet, but then again, Marnus' words had given more than a little warning. Ominous, almost, but as it all too often did, a caution to avoid forbidden knowledge only served to strengthen a desire to know.

'Well,' he began, 'you lost too much tissue for a natural recovery, so Terinius took a sample of your tissue for bio replication.'

'Come again?'

'Our organic variant of, well, augmentics,' he tried, before he relented 'okay, truth be told, we had to give you a joint replacement module, but it'll be concealed by the skin graft.'

Anna took a full moment to analyse the wound before she started to grasp what Varro had just sprouted. It was a fairly distinct line between the two skins that now made up her knee; one was abnormally pale, as if it had just emerged from frozen storage at the center of a glacier for several days. And under a gentle touch, Anna found a bump that had certainly not existed before the last ill fated flight. Something too perfectly shaped, a little too regular, to be a natural piece of bone.

A little less human, she thought to herself. Then she recalled what had composed the Battlemaster's back.

She wondered if there was any remnant of the creature that had once been Hadrius Varro that still remained beneath the cold plate. And worse, if she would soon be facing the same fate.

* * *

'Alright lads,' the Battlemaster begun, as he strode through opening doors, 'what went wrong, and how can we avoid that again in the future?'

'How about everything?' a helpful Regius replied, earning an irate scowl from the Battlemaster.

'It's nothing we haven't seen before,' Marnus put in, covering for his old friend, 'we met a disciplined force in open combat. No contest.'

There was little denying his words. As always, Shadow Guardsmen were well adapt at combat when they set the terms of the engagement, but, caught as they had been on the wrong end of an ambush, their stealth orientated armor once again proved it was unable to deflect every round that came their way.

'And solutions?' Varro tested.

'We tip them off balance,' Girius offered immediately. Though he and Ignus had hardly participated in the ill fated mission, the pair had been hastily recalled from their Northern posting after the incident, and a quick review on the flight back over the team's mission recordings had given them ample understanding. 'That excessive discipline went out the window when you managed to break contact. Same as any conventional force.'

Varro was already nodding his assent. Truth be told, the question had only been another simple test of the company's wits and tactical acumen once more. That, and as a means to provide a better picture of their coming plans to Anna, Elsa, and Kristoff, who had trailed in not long after Varro's arrival.

'Exactly,' he grunted, turning back to the three humans, 'an ambush would provide the force multiplier we'd need to send them straight to the Great Father for judgement.'

'Force multiplier?' Anna asked immediately, barely stopping to consider the question. She'd spent the better part of her time in the briefing room analysing the assembled Guardsmen, or rather, the remarkably silent Tarus. Unlike the others, who lounged about the room, Tarus had secreted himself into the very far corner of the room, his cloak drawn about him in shadow. In fact, it had taken a few moments of observation before she had realized that the Guardsman was in fact without his helmet. Probably had something to do with the fact that his lower jaw; the only segment of his being not concealed by the shadows that clung to him, was now the same metallic shade that she'd previously seen upon Varro's hand, and more recently, the college that was his back. And once more, she was trying to imagine a life like that; the ability to live on, at a tremendous cost. Though, to think of it, such rarely seemed to bother the Titulians, she'd realized, before Varro's voice had broken her thoughts.

'A factor that permits a smaller force,' the Battlemaster explained briefly, 'to best a larger one. Factors such as experience, technology, or the element of surprise. Even the terrain of the battlefield.'

At those first few words though, Elsa and Anna were already exchanging glances. Despite what they'd seen so far into Council warfare, the concept of taking a 'smaller force' against a 'larger force' rarely evoked a prediction of victory.

'How many people are we talking about here?' Elsa finally asked, turning her gaze back to the Battlemaster.

'When we finally managed to get the video feed from Charon back online,' Varro answered, diplomatically avoiding a scathing comment related to the fact that such was due to a full blown blizzard taking place in the Firebase's command center, 'we picked up a military column advancing on Arendelle's Southern border.'

At his words, a hologram was dropped from the ceiling before the company's eyes, not dissimilar from the kind that Anna had previously used to identify the navy from Wesselton. The unnatural, blue hue drove back the shadows of the room, prompting Tarus to draw the cloak closer to his features. However, the strange gesture was not missed by Anna, though she decided to avoid another enquiry, for now at least, as she turned her eyes back to the projections from the Guard satellite.

Unlike before, this time, there was no single entity for Varro to readily provide for her identification. Rather, the imaging presented was one long rolling mass of bodies, each one frozen in mid step.

It didn't take long to discern that, once again, Varro's indication of a 'smaller force' was the understatement of the century. There were enough rifles in the small snippet of the Southern army than Arendelle had able bodies that were barely half trained.

'We're still trying to ascertain the location of the surviving brothers inside the column,' Varro noted, before he gestured for the hologram to pull it's view further outwards, toward the sky, 'but as of now, there are three possible paths that they could take to reach Arendelle's walls.'

'So what?' Kristoff asked, 'We hit them on the road? They'd overrun us even if we fortified the right route with every man we have...'

'First of all,' Varro interrupted, 'yes, we are going to wipe that smug grin off the bastard's face before they reach the city. And second, we're going to put everybody we have on the right route, 'cause we're going to tell them exactly where they're going to be when we blow them to hell.'

* * *

'How bad was it?'

The Legionnaire's face already told him everything he'd need to know before his mouth had even produced the words.

'Thirty dead,' the lieutenant reported darkly, 'another two dozen wounded, and an entire cannon battery destroyed.'

Not for the first time, Hans turned back for the command tent with a curse on his lips. He hadn't even bothered to ask if they'd inflicted a single casualty on the damned foe, because, if they had, the camp would have already been in a cacophony of celebration.

Only halting to nod his thanks to a pair of Legionnaires who had placed a hand to their foreheads in a sharp salute, Hans ducked his head low, entering the pavilion at the center of the column's camp. Though the gesture was expected, it never hurt the men to know they were appreciated by their commander. He had already drilled them, and earned their respect; now, he could afford to treat them as brothers in arms.

King Torben, along with his three last surviving blood brothers, were all there, each with a beige cloak draped about their shoulders, as they hovered over a map, gesticulating with hands, fingers, and what appeared to be at least one knife.

Evidently, Hans decided, his brothers shared his frustration, and for a moment, he wondered if they would go as far as to snap at the bearer of bad news. Then again, he decided ruefully, these were the kin he could trust. Haythem, Albarach, and that bastard Regian; they would have certainly thrown him out the command quarters at the slightest shred of misfortune he relayed. Whatever had taken their lives, and hopefully sent them straight to hell, he could have almost thanked, if they weren't still his kin.

Then again, the incident two days past had robbed him of some good friends. Though he had never really grown close with most of those killed in the banquet room, the loss of Jorg and Tobias would be a hard burden on his shoulders.

Of all the people in the world, he'd never expected Anna to be the one to kill them. True, she was naive, and as stubborn as an ass, but a killer?

Maybe he'd acted with an...overzealous response, he reflected, before he was reminded of the last hunt he had shared with Jorg, as a pair of Legionnaires dragged in a deer for the evening. He wouldn't still be breathing if his brother's aim had faltered.

His uncertainty over tearing a girl's kneecap out of place disappeared, before he heard the gentle cough of an older brother, as someone finally looked up from their plans, noting his arrival.

'Report?' Torben asked, his hands still placed, palms down on the wooden board. In many aspects, he was identical to Hans, and in so many other ways, one would have never thought they were related, much less brothers. The auburn hair still cropped his brother's scalp, although unlike Hans, it was unkempt, shaggy nearly, and tinged with shades of silver and grey. Lordship had taken a lot out of his brother, Hans reflected. Indeed, his gaunt appearance gave little indication that he was only three years his senior, but at the core, still burned the fiery heart of a warrior Hans knew.

And then there were his eyes. Sharp, unwavering, and yet, strangely tinged; flecked with a metallic cool gold that had only recently begun to show amongst the emerald pupils. It's appearance hadn't come with any ailments though, and Hans simply took it as a sign of his early aging, with the pressure of a kingdom on his shoulders.

'They hit us again,' Hans replied, letting the cowl of his winter cloak fall to his shoulders, revealing his own face, 'fast raid; in and out, just like before, and then they melted away before we could reinforce the point hit.'

'Who took the brunt of it?' Frederik asked, already straightening up at the news. Of all those present, he was the closest to resemble Hans, being the second youngest of the dwindling family. Not that he was any different from his brother; capable of the lies and planning that were all the everyday requirement of diplomacy; traits he was now using to try and counter the blasted tactics of Arendelle's military.

'Gregor's division,' Hans noted, in a nearly rehearsed manner of speech, after so many a conversation of the like over the past days, 'the Seventh rifles. Thirty dead, twenty four wounded. They even ignited a gunpowder battery; the Fifth artillery's gone now: no casualties, but their guns are useless.'

'Damnit,' Torben muttered, turning his attention back to the map.

'It's nothing like our intelligence suggested,' Halfinger noted, almost to himself, 'Arendelle's a trade city after all; there's no way they obtained weapons of such calibre.'

There was a mutter of assent amongst his kin, aside from Hans himself. Tobias had been the previous head of intelligence, before his assassination, and it was bitter thought at best for the dead to bear. Then again though, he had to admit, this had to be, by far, the worst intelligence disaster in the history of man. They had begun their march up North, expecting to face a ceremonial force of arms at best.

Instead, within half an hour of crossing the border, they had walked straight into an ambush that had gunned down just under fifty of their number, before their attackers had faded into the night, unwilling to face the wrath of the Southern forces.

Since then, that scenario had repeated itself almost a dozen times, though none carried the same impact as the first. Not that that was saying a lot, Hans thought grimly, recalling the screams of the wounded as they were carried away. Whatever weapons their enemies were using, they were certainly putting anyone they didn't kill out of the fight. Permanently, with the odd limb removed.

'What does that leave our current forces at?' Frederik asked again, nearly leaning against a wall, before halting the motion in mid step, recalling at the last moment that they were indeed in a tent. Of all the brothers, he'd probably seen the least warfare, but his mind was invaluable, leaving Torben with little alternative but to drag him along on the invasion effort.

'The casualties are still insignificant,' Torben noted in a lowered voice, 'we have more than enough numbers to press on. In all likelihood, they're simply trying to use these tactics to even up the odds. Their actual numbers are probably still as low as we previously predicted. Maybe a little more,' he admitted quickly, 'but still badly outnumbered nonetheless.'

'If we continue on at this rate,' Hans protested, 'I'd hate to see them with any larger numbers; we haven't confirmed a single casualty on their forces; we've lost close to three hundred men by now.'

'They've engaged us time and time again at exactly the same kind of location,' he went on, 'a bottleneck location where our ranks are trapped to five a line at most, before they open fire. The Mourning Woods offer them the perfect location to trap our forces; it's ideal.'

As he pinned a finger into the map, Hans was glad to see that there was some understanding amongst his elder brothers at his words, though Torben himself was eying it with some skepticism. After all, it was rare he fell back on his youngest kin to advise on the grand strategy.

'If we alter the path,' Torben considered, as he chewed his lip, 'we'll lose time on reaching the city before the eighteenth.'

'So what?' Philip questioned, drawing a short scowl from his King. Philip never truly had mastered the art of diplomacy, preferring the blunt approach, as one often did when he commanded artillery, 'we'll lose fewer men. What's the point in hitting the city on a certain day anyway?'

Torben was on the verge of drawing breath for a reply, when he halted, reconsidering his thoughts.

'The longer we give them,' he replied slowly, 'the more time they'll have to fortify themselves to withstand an assault.'

'Maybe,' Hans agreed, before he gestured toward the woods once more, 'but if we go in there, none of us might make it to the other side. The gorge is long enough for them to trap our entire column at once; if they hit us with enough men, it won't be a small, isolated hit and run attack; they'll wipe us out.'

With the others murmuring their agreement, Torben was forced to back down, sinking back into his seat, still contemplating the new turn in their plans. He never was very good at adapting to the situation, Hans reflected, at least comparatively to Frederik and himself.

'So what do you propose?'

'We could take the Eastern road,' Frederik offered, but Halfinger, Philip and Torben were already shaking their heads. Of course, Hans thought, the younger pair had always missed something blindingly obvious to people who spent too much time planning invasions that rarely came to be.

'It'll take too long,' Torben shot immediately, 'and the road narrows at the coast; a small force could hold us off fairly effectively right here.'

The tip of the knife he'd previously been toying with was laid gently to a small depression in the coastline that both Hans and Frederik had to lean over the table to observe, but, with their other two brothers already in agreement with their King, any opposition died unopposed.

'Our best bet would be to take the Raven's road,' Torben went on, 'there's too few chances for them to plan any real ambushes, and it's on a naturally raised plain. We'll have the high ground if they chose to attack. We'll need to march through the night, but I guess some things can't be helped.'

Hans only nodded his assent. Frankly, he was somewhat confused as to why his brother was obsessed with hitting the blasted city before a certain date, but, he supposed, watching those buildings going up in flames sooner rather than later couldn't hurt.

'Very well,' Torben decided, as he saw the agreement in his brothers' eyes, 'at first light, we'll move for the Raven's road. Take the word to your respective units. That'll be all.'

As he filed outside in step with his brothers, Hans tugged the cloak closer to his figure in a vain attempt to fight the biting cold. Though a winter offensive would have certainly caught the Arendelle military by surprise, if it hadn't been for a bunch of observant border guards, it hardly improved the spirits of his men. A few had already subcumbed to frostbite, but for the most part, the men of the South were ready for a hard campaign.

And none were as prepared as the Legionnaires, Hans thought to himself with some pride, as he passed the same attentive sentries that had guarded the command tent.

'I take it you heard the new arrangements?' he asked. A formal, silent nod replied him, stifling the Prince somewhat. Evidently, he'd yet to cross the barrier of commander to a brother in arms.

'Well pass it on, fellas,' he instructed gently, 'I'm off to find Anton. Keep up the good work, men.'

With as sincere a smile one could manage in a blizzard, he sauntered off into the falling snow, unaware of the identical gesture that the two men wore at his back.

Neither did he see the spectral flicker of light that flashed across their figures, as the two, uniformed men disappeared under the receding holo cloaks, to be replaced by two hulking, black cloaked warriors at arms.

'Oh we will,' Victus grinned quietly, watching the Prince disappear into the storm. A moment later, and so had they.

* * *

'Looks clear,' Plinus called, as he pulled himself back inside the Omen, 'prep for drop.'

Lightly tossing the ranging scope to a silent Girius, Plinus ambled back away from the edge, to flop into a convenient seat beside a strangely silent figure.

Then again, unlike her sister, Elsa could have easily found solace in a silence, and, at a glance, a casual observer could have mistaken her to be in silent contemplation.

On the other hand, knowledge of her sister's vulnerability to air sickness could easily betray Elsa's true situation.

'You alright there, Elsa?' Plinus asked, straight faced, 'You're looking a bit, well, pale.'

'Fine.'

'You sure?' Ignus, undoubtedly, never helpful as always.

'Yes.'

'Any reason for the monosyllabic answers, then?' Girius laughed, before he remembered he was dealing with someone who could put him in a block of ice in an instant, or worse. Quickly, he straightened upright.

Not that Elsa was in any state to shut him up, as she tried to dig deep and find some internal strength to keep her lunch down. It couldn't have hurt to have Anna with her at the present time, she managed to think. Her injury had, to both sisters' great disappointment, had kept her somewhat restricted for a little while longer than Varro could afford to keep the Omens grounded, leaving her alone to face the perils of the sky.

Company in suffering always seemed to lessen an ordeal.

Aside from the two Guardsmen from Legion, and the Snow Queen herself, the steel tomb was devoid of life, rocking ominously to and fro, and continuing to threaten to spill one occupant's insides.

'Storm nodes are clear on the outskirts,' Tullius' voice boomed over the comms, 'approach should be clear.'

'That still isn't a reason to go in unarmed,' Plinus shot back, as he shot to his feet once more, gesturing for his two escorts to do the same, and once more, the trio began the laborious process of slipping the equivalent of an iron mine's contents into the countless slits and sheaths embedded in their suits, ready for war.

Elsa was on the verge of reminding them of the diplomatic nature of their mission, when turbulent bound of the Omen's metal body brought her up cold, unable to voice her opposition to start a war with people they were seeking aid from.

Then again, she thought rapidly to herself, maybe the Titulian was right. Maybe there'd be trouble after all.

And maybe a flying horse would come down from the heavens and solve all their problems.

'ETA; sixty seconds,' the Raven's voice echoed once more, 'stand by for touch down.'

Locking a final sharpened instrument to his back, before holstering at least three firearms, Plinus turned to the pale Queen, and punched a button in the wall, releasing the restraints.

Not that is was a gesture Elsa appreciated, as another bout of turbulence sent her out of her seat, to the great amusement of all those present.

Well, with the exception of the one burdened with flying the silent vessel, as an alarm klaxon began to wail.

'Plinus, what the hell did you just do?' Tullius roared, 'I just lost video feed on the troop bay, and engine one is loosing power!'

'Um, sorry,' Elsa managed, as she picked herself up the floor, trying to will herself to calm down. Slowly, the ice sheets began to retreat once more, until the only ice that remained in the troop bay was in the cold stare that passed over the three guilty black cloaks before the Stormcaller.

Wisely, it was then that Tullius decided to finally drop the vessel to the ground, ending the tormenting journey.

'Sorry about that,' Plinus quickly apologised, before he turned for the doorway, the instinct to find something to kill apparently overriding any guilt that remained.

Well, Elsa decided, as she trudged out into the open, better a moment of sincerity than none at all.

* * *

'You're absolute?'

'The Norther assault will likely be linked to the eighteenth,' Victus affirmed, nodding his assent, 'there's no other reason Torben would be rushing other than to split us onto two fronts. They're now moving right along the Raven's road. Just like you said,' he added, with a note of respect on his voice.

Varro only grunted in reply, dismissing the Fieldmaster and the beleaguered shadow who had chosen to accompany the Guardsman into the lion's den, leaving him in relative isolation on the command deck, with only a dozen ensigns manning the consoles, alongside Kristoff and Anna for company, as he turned back to face the holo display.

Not that there was a great deal to add; he'd already placed the new enemy troop movements before the two Guardsmen's transmission, confirming the change in path.

'I'm still quite beyond understanding just as to how on Earth you managed to do that,' Anna wondered aloud, as her eyes scanned the foreign runes that flashed past her eyes; beyond her capability to understand, yet clear in message, as comm feeds continued to drift in from the Fifth company's engineers, reporting on preparations along the Western road.

'Excellent,' the Battlemaster nodded, to someone beyond eyesight, 'Copy that, Derinius, Legion be on station once Tullius returns tomorrow. Continue to fortify as planned until then.'

With that, he closed the feed, leaving Anna and Kristoff to ponder just what had transpired. In fact, they remained rooted to the spot for a full moment before they realized Varro was no longer stood before them.

'Hey, Varro,' Anna called, trying to keep pace with the marching Battlemaster without placing too much pressure on her healing leg, eventually ending in a bit of aid from Kristoff, 'just tell me; how did you know?'

'I didn't 'know' they would take the Raven's road,' Varro put carefully, 'as I said, we made them take the Raven's road. And as a result, we'll be ready for them.'

Such did little to satisfy Anna's curiosity, so eventually, Varro had to relent, as he rounded a corner, before adopting the leaning posture the Guard seemed so fond of.

'The Mourning Woods would have been a good spot to pick an ambush,' he admitted, 'but that's the problem; it was too obvious. The perfect point for an ambush; any half decent military planner would have seen that, and moved around it, unless they were willing to absorb the casualties. Unfortunately, with at least one demon in their ranks, that makes the South a little bit unpredictable, so we made them a little bit more predictable. A few hit and run attacks, and they soon saw things the way we see them; we showed them how we like to fight, and thus, we pointed out to them that the Mourning Woods were a bad place to head.'

'But then why direct them to the Raven's road?' Kristoff asked, 'we could have just pretended to fight conventionally and then hit them in the woods...'

'Certainty in an enemy's movements is always preferable,' Varro noted, 'Nobody in their right mind would go West, so it was split in between the main pass, and the Raven's road. Until we let them know that we fight by guerrilla tactics, it was a fifty fifty chance they'd take either one.'

'Couldn't we have just fortified both roads?'

'And split our outnumbered forces by two again?'

That shut off any further confusion on that enquiry into that, individual field of the Guardsman's logic.

'Even if we waited for them in the woods,' Varro went on, 'you need to remember we're not laying an ambush for a small band of a dozen; there's well over eight thousand men still out there. Eight thousand men, who'll be jumping at shadows when they march into the textbook ambush site.'

'The ideal ambush takes place along the entire length of the enemy's marching column at the same time,' he continued, 'needless to say, that means a very, very long time from when their lead forces pass our foremost ambushers.'

'Which means?'

'Meaning,' Varro muttered, turning a withering gaze that did not pass beyond his helmet, 'it'll be a very long time for which any paranoid idiot could spot a concealed soldier before we can spring the attack, and if they detect us beforehand, there goes the ambush. And then there are the outriders; scouts who move along the sides of the column. People who tend to move further away from the path in ambush territory, and when they tend to do that, cases of idiots stepping on our troops usually rise.'

He was partly glad to see the understanding dawn in the two sets of eyes before him. After all, the prospect of laying unmoving for the better part of a few hours as eight thousand pairs of eyes moved past, was hardly appealing when it would only take one to spell damnation for everyone committed to the attack.

'We need a location where people will be confident enough to be fairly lax in observation, or rather, a place where outriders aren't going to stray too far off the trail, and find our forces before it's time to send them all to hell.'

'So I guess the Raven's road is, you know,' Anna stumbled, trying to catch up with the alien's logic, 'all that?'

'Exactly,' Varro grinned, as he produced another holographic map, this time from his palm, 'here. The road is actually a raised embankment, with open fields flanking it's sides, therefore, theoretically, no one could ambush it without their entire force getting gunned down before a defender fell.'

Anna pulled up short. From what he had spat off, their chances of success seemed to have just hit rock bottom. Varro only let off another bark of laughter at the look on her face.

'Theoretically.'

* * *

'What do you idiots want? A bloody bio print? How about an retina scan to cap it?'

There would have probably been more unwanted aggression from the Blademaster, had Elsa not decided to gently place a hand on his shoulder, and gesture for him to move aside.

Evidently, the guards were more willing to deal with someone who exposed their face, let alone someone who didn't threaten to gut them on sight.

'Queen Elsa of Arendelle,' she greeted the two men at arms quietly, 'I have an urgent message for the Royal Court.'

The two royal guards were still obviously nervous at the prospect, though if it was a matter of her regent status, or the continued presence of the seething Guardsman at her side, Elsa did not know.

'We'll need proof of identity before we permit anyone past the bridge,' one man hesitated, likely the senior of the two, 'Jens, hold them here; I'm going to get the sergeant and...'

'You think this midget could stop me?' Plinus was off again, still irate at the fact the two had even thought to halt their progress, 'I could eat him alive if I was in the mood.'

'Plinus,' Elsa soothed, jolting the Guardsman's attention with a burst of cold down her hand, onto the Guardsman's suit, 'can you just let me?'

Huffing his irritation, Plinus trudged off aside, joining his two compatriots on the darkened side of the road. She already had a feeling that the trio were somewhat irritated, if not downright furious, that they'd been attached on escort duty rather than the frontlines, and that the sooner their business was concluded, the better.

Of course, she wasn't to know that, on Terra at least, Council assignment was a fairly uncomplicated process that merely involved a fully armored Guardsman to pass the bio checkpoint with the brush of a finger before waltzing into the most heavily fortified structure in known space to conclude their work in a matter of minutes.

Needless to say, the telling lack of such privileges, and the presence of two guards who seemed more determined to keep newcomers from entering rather than verifying their access, was beginning to affect the Blademaster, particularly when there was an army that needed slaughtering up North.

At least she could understand his...earlier animosity, Elsa thought with a slight grin. It wasn't prejudice; it was downright boredom.

'Look,' she tried, nearly pleading, 'we're in a real hurry, so the sooner this gets done, the better. You want proof of my identity?'

A few more snowflakes than she'd intended materialized in the palm her open hand, jolting the pair of sentries back a good couple of feet.

'There's your proof. If you're worried they're going to tear up the place,' she jerked a thumb toward the Guardsmen at her back for clarification, 'rest assured, I'll keep them in check. You can escort us if you want to make sure...'

'Over my dead body,' Plinus hissed. Elsa just ignored him, keeping her gaze locked with the faltering men.

'Alright,' the older man finally conceded, 'but they remove their helmets and weapons...'

'Buddy,' a hostile voice spat from the Snow Queen's back, 'I'll toss you in the lake if you even think of that again. And not in one piece!'

By now, all the poor man could do was shrug in answer. Facing the towering behemoth at seven feet, and the blade it was tossing between it's hands, he had few doubts it could pull of the threat with almost contemptuous ease.

* * *

For a snow laden field, one would have hardly expected the earthen smell of fresh dirt to meet the nostrils, as the soft tinkering of well oiled machinery continued to resound off along the road.

Though Anna was unable to tell the very nature of their work, there was little doubt that they were effective, as the Guardsmen Varro had identified only as the Fabricators of the Fifth company, or rather, Obsidian squad, continued their quiet work along the path they now knew would be the future site of a massacre.

Of course, she thought ruefully, the very faction to be massacred was yet to be determined.

Sure, they were prepared, but the Guard were horrifically few in number. In fact, though the Battlemaster had previously informed her that each company consisted of fifty black cloaks, she could only find two dozen in sight. And then there were the four who had met their end in Entracus.

Meanwhile, Torben and Hans easily had eight thousand souls at their call.

Maybe that was why she was currently flanked by some unsavory company, but there hadn't been many other alternatives to lead an advance group of 'auxiliaries' from Arendelle after all, as Birgir marched up to her side on the ridge overlooking the site.

'They work fast,' she commented, barely shifting her eyes from the work below.

'Maybe,' the commander replied, crossing his arms as he surveyed the scene below, 'but seriously, if they think they can take a fight against this many, we might as well just kill our own men to save the bastards the trouble.'

'A bit of lacking faith there, commander?'

The words were enough to spin both of the pair about, to find another black cloak, only this time, a figure fully armored from head to toe in carapace, advancing on them, presumably wearing a broad grin under the all concealing helm at the surprise in their eyes.

Not that surprise ever lasted long with Arendelle's Commander of the Guard, as he recovered his poise once more to, as usual, argue with a member of higher authority.

'Tactically speaking,' Birgir began, 'an ambush could allow a smaller force to overcome a larger one.'

'So you say.' Varro answered, somewhat amused at a tactics session from someone not even half his age.

'...But that concept is absurd if you take two hundred against eight thousand!' the commandant went on, obviously infuriated at the concept of being used as cannon fodder by the Guard.

Truth be told, Anna had to admit, it was only natural that Birgir expect them to be used by the Shadows; with a three to one ratio of Arendelle's Guardsmen to Titulians, it could almost be mistaken that the Fifty Ninth were simply throwing them away to buy time on their other front.

Then again, she thought, as Varro drew breath for a reply, it should prove entertaining to see the stubborn idiot put in his place by the Battlemaster.

'You remind me of a certain someone,' Varro hissed, barely audible, 'Estorian Quintus; Battlemaster of the Seventeenth Iron Guard.'

Thought the words meant little to unknowing ears, the very fact that Varro's lowered tone was able to pass the helmet's audio feeds was enough to inform Anna that whoever this Quintus was, the Fifty Ninth's Battlemaster held little to no respect for his accomplishments.

'Always too concerned with numbers,' he continued, 'never giving a flying shit for each life under his damn command.'

That was enough to cow even the proud Birgir, but Varro was far from finished.

'War is not the simple aspect of _the largest side wins_, Master of the Guard. Outcomes are determined by weapons, as are they chosen by the men who fight. And I'll back a Guardsman of Titan any day over a dozen of those Southern bastards. And so should you trust your own men to endure.'

'But still...' Birgir trailed off, uncertain of how to proceed without doubting the mettle of his elite in protest of ensuring their survival.

'Yes, they have the numbers,' Varro grinned, 'but we've got the technology, the element of surprise, and a Stormcaller. As far as I can see, we've got a three to one ratio in advantages, so we should do just fine.'

* * *

'Still clear,' someone whispered in her ear.

'You know,' Elsa whispered out of the corner of her mouth, very aware of the twenty royal guards that were now surrounding them as they marched through wide streets, 'you don't need to wave that whatchamacallit over every...'

'Storm Node,' a sneering voice put into her right ear, through the small ear piece that resided there. In fact, it wasn't. There was nothing superior about it in the first place. Just irritation, and maybe a hint of impatience. Who would have thought of an impatient Guardsman?

'What I'm saying is,' she resumed, without a break in stride, 'you don't need to assume everyone is possessed, or whatever you call it. Innocent until proven guilty, right?'

'Isn't it the other way round?' Plinus retaliated softly.

'This is why we had that first...' Frankly, Elsa was unable as to how she was to phrase their first actual 'greeting' between the black cloaks and herself. Unfortunately, her current companions were not apparently willing to finish her sentence this time, so she had to make do.

'This is why our first, um, encounter, ended so badly.' She finished weakly. No reply. At least, for two seconds.

'You mean catastrophically?'

Realizing she'd never get the last word in, Elsa turned her gaze back down the winding street, as they were led onwards.

It was her first time here, she noted with no little dismay. After the Winter incident, most of her time had been spent reorganising the city after the logistical disaster of a freak Winter in Summer, followed by Summer's immediate return after extensive preparations for the unending cold...

And then, even after that, Arendelle had demanded her attention, as had more, unsavory characters to put it simply. True, Anna had been dispatched on a fair number of diplomatic missions, but a few; the ones where war, or rather a glorified witch hunt was inevitable, had demanded her presence in person, leaving few chances for rest. And even after that, with the constant burden on her shoulders, there had been few chances to ever visit...

'Elsa?'

The voice had caught her off guard; a voice that had not met her ears for three years past, and even that occasion had been...disrupted.

A brief glance upward at the castle's walls told her everything she needed to know, as the brief flash of a purpled dress on the balcony above disappeared. Evidently, someone wasn't going to wait for them to come to her.

It was only then that she realized each Guardsman was quietly standing with their hands crossed. A very, very bad sign, particularly when one knew that the black cloaks prefered to keep a concealed blade on each arm, with the hilt barely exposed at the elbow.

'For the record,' she whispered quietly, 'I don't know what your Storm Nodes are going to say, but whatever happens, try not to kill my cousin.'

'And why would that be?' Plinus grunted, nearly innocently. Nearly, if one discounted the wolf's grin he was clearly wearing.

'Well, I don't know if she'd set it off because...it's a long story.'

'Two Stormcallers in one family?' Girius asked, in no little amazement, as well as disbelief, 'what next? Great Father sends the Fallen to help us?'

'It's actually going to sound pretty ridiculous, I guess,' Elsa admitted, frankly unsure of how to convey the magical stance of Corona's returned regent, 'she had magical hair but...'

She didn't get any further before nearly going deaf under the cackle of laughter in her ear drum. At least Plinus wasn't laughing, she thought to herself, as he looked up whisfully at the stars. They really had kept him away from the fight for too long, she noted with a little shock.

'Well that's the thing,' she continued, trying to smother out the snorts two Titulians could make, 'it was cut off, so I really don't know now if she's still...if she still could be counted as a threat on that Node...'

'Contact,' Plinus announced softly.

'Elsa!' the voice called again, this time right ahead of them.

The two shot towards one another, past some bemused guards of both species, to embrace upon the steps, after too long a time.

'It's great to see you again, Rapunzel,' Elsa said, eying a face she had not seen for three years. Regency did tend to restrict one's capability to deal with more personal matters, particually when it came with a sorcerous curse exposed to people in a rather deadly fashion.

'I didn't hear you were visiting,' Rapunzel laughed, still joyful at the surprise visit, before she suddenly noted an absence. 'Where's Anna? Isn't she coming? And who are they?'

It had surprised the young Princess to no little degree that Elsa was without her usual bodyguard, with only the golden plates of Corona's guardsmen to be seen, and of course, three hulking and terrifying monsters clad in the darkness of the night.

'It's...' Elsa trailed off, 'It's a long story.'

* * *

Curiosity overriding sensibility, as she instinctively tugged the warm cloak closer to herself in an effort to keep out the biting cold, Anna trudged through the snow that coated the Raven's road, until she found herself barely a few steps from one of the toiling black cloaks.

He was currently bent over something that resembled a cylinder sunk deep into the snow, with a secondary, hollowed tube injected into the top of the matted structure. It seemed that it was customary amongst the Guard to remove all colour from their gear, and this was no exception, as the Guardsman continued his work, twisting the drill like block into the heaping snow.

'What are you doing?' she asked innocently, completely unaffected by the fact that she did not know both the name, nor appearance of the creature beneath the helm.

'Setting Marx,' the Guardsman replied curtly, though elaboration was not offered. In a relatively talkative mood though, Anna was not about to be deterred with such ease.

'Which is?'

'High explosives,' the short answer came again. That certainly got Anna's attention, as she leaned over to get a better glimpse of the Fabricator's work. Eventually satisfied that he'd reached the ideal position, the Guardsman deployed three small legs from the cylinder, before he flipped a small switch on the tube's side.

Immediately, the structure began to vibrate to and fro, as if a powerful wind had suddenly began to snap at the black tube alone.

A few seconds later, and the switch was snapped back into it's starting place once more, shutting off the invisible storm that rocked the engine, before the Guardsman produced a small cannister from his belt. With the fluid motion of a master crafted machine, not dissimilar from the instrument before him, the black cloak locked the tube into the hollow opening at the top of the oversized pen.

'So what's that?' She asked, raising a hand in gesture to the new addition of machinery.

'The Marxentine,' the Titulian replied, shoulders slightly raised as if he were shrugging in question at the necessity of the question.

Anna was on the verge of making a comment she was likely to regret if she actually halted to think, when another voice saved her from the monosyllabic Guardsman.

'I see Derinius is his usual talkative self,' Varro noted, a grin evident under his helm, 'why don't you answer the lady's questions, lad?'

No reply.

'Alright,' Varro laughed, as he placed a hand on Anna's shoulder to lead her away,'I'm just pulling your leg; I'll cover for you, you quiet bastard.'

'Much appreciated,' the Fabricator grunted, as he turned back to his work, an unintelligible gesture on his hands directed to the rumbling Battlemaster.

'What's his deal?' Anna bubbled, the moment she believed they were outside audio range of the unsociable Guardsman.

'Oh, Derinius? He got his throat torn out by a Xeno just six years ago; he got a voice box augment, but that was only maybe three months after the injury. Bloody logistics.'

'Yikes,' Anna muttered, in quiet sympathy for the untalkative Guardsman, 'is that why...?'

'Well, yes,' Varro finished for her, 'if you take away someone's capacity to talk for a few months, then they do tend to grow accustomed to other, quieter means of communication. Even then, it's still a bit painful for him to speak these days; probably some loose nerves still attached. Then again, it does teach the value of silence well.'

Anna wasn't quite sure if an apology was in order for the Fabricator at her back, but Varro's stride, and restraining arm, was enough to limit another conversation with someone who's only wish in life was to avoid such.

'Anyway,' the Battlemaster went on, 'Marxentine; lovely substance from the Caldis system. If you exclude the materials used in Time class weapons, Marx is probably the most dangerous compound in the Council.'

Anna wasn't even about to question the Battlemaster on what on earth a clock had to do with the naming conventions behind the Guard weapons, but, from the description at least, she didn't need Varro to spell out the fact that Time weapons would easily be classified as weapons of mass and total destruction.

'Five grams would be enough to blow the hinges off an armored door,' Varro noted, 'in fact, it's in your hellfire rounds; the explosive component contains a few grams.'

That certainly got Anna's attention. Though she had yet to use the most deadly munitions available to the Fifty Ninth, she'd seen enough of their grisly results in training simulations to know that anyone on the receiving end could easily be split in half with a well placed shot.

'And how much did he just put down there?'

'Three hundred grams.' Varro replied. 'Not a lot, but still, enough to send a lot of people to hell.'

Anna ditched her previous theory on whatever Varro had classified as a Time weapon. If three hundred grams wasn't enough in Varro's book, such weapons were easily in the 'apocalypse at a button's press' degree.

Maybe worse.

Too bad, she decided, that they didn't have one to drop on Hans' head.

'So how does it work?' she quizzed, still somewhat intrigued as to why the Guard had decided to drill a too-be fireball into the earth, 'they step on it, and, you know?'

'If we want,' Varro admitted, 'but it's usually better to arm the mines for a manual detonation.'

'Manual?'

Varro's only response was to produce a fairly innocent boxy device, perhaps the size of her palm in width.

'We press that,' he explained, gesturing toward a small depression in the canister, 'and any Marx store we have synched to the detonator goes boom at the press of the button. We wait until the whole column is stood right over each one, before we'll ignite a firestorm. With luck, you might even see the smoke back in Arendelle.'

Anna had no idea how such a slaughter would be considered an act of luck, but considering the Guardsman's confidence in the coming battle, she could rest easy to some small degree.

Then again, she remembered, when that time came, she'd have to pull a trigger.

* * *

As it turned out, Rapunzel was certainly a better listener than Anna, Elsa thought, as she listened intently to the events that had transpired ever since the Warden had crashed into the oceans of Earth. From the first, disastrous meeting, to Anna's more recent encounter with Hans; Elsa weaved the tale, perhaps as well as Eugene had retold his own life to her.

Not that such was of any concern to the black cloaks, as they ambled about, searching for something to do. Girius was currently perched by the window, scanning the landscape before him with the image enhancers in one hand, and, currently folded up into a far less intimidating state, a Judgement rifle in the other. Meanwhile, Ignus was repeatedly poking around with the doors, while Plinus, to the great uncomfort of Eugene, was tossing a blade high into the air between his hands.

Given the Blademaster's very immediate proximity of three feet from the Prince, it was little wonder he was not as driven in his efforts to pay attention to Elsa's tale.

'So then,' Rapunzel muttered, as she crossed her arms in contemplation of the far fetched tale, 'what exactly are you doing here? You need help?'

'Bingo,' Girius shot from his window sill without bothering to turn about, 'looks like we have a winner.'

'I'm not entirely sure if I'm the best one to describe the, strategic situation, if you would,' Elsa managed, her voice partly cracking after a long tale, 'Plinus?'

'Short and sweet version?' the Blademaster groaned, before he continued without waiting for a reply, 'Let me put it this way; we're outnumbered at least twenty thousand to a measly six hundred or so, and as a result, we are going to have our arses kicked over the horizon if we don't find something to even those odds soon.'

For a moment, Elsa was rather bemused as to why all seriousness had left the Guardsman, before she realized he was merely pulling their leg, as he slid the blade back into it's sheath, and produced a holographic map from his palm that promptly flooded the room.

'As of now,' he muttered, grim toned once more, 'our forces are in danger of being surrounded; we've got the Southern contingent coming up the Raven's road here, and all manner of hell moving on the Eagle's pass, here.'

The two war zones quickly lit up red on the map, much to the amazement of Rapunzel and Eugene at the sight of the transparent model produced by light.

'Needless to say, we're dividing our forces, and as a result, we'll be pushed back on both fronts. Varro's working on a means to stop the South before it advances too far, but that still leaves us heavily outgunned against the enemies moving from the North. Unless we get reinforcements, and fast, we will lose the pass, and everything beyond it.'

'You want us to mobilize for war?' The message was obvious, but it couldn't hurt to be certain, particularly with a matter of this magnitude. Such was only a far fetched nightmare in Corona, as it had been with their Northern cousins until recent days.

'It's the only way,' Elsa pleaded, 'Look Rapunzel, I wouldn't be asking you to do this if it wouldn't mean the end of everything. Not just Arendelle, but...'

She didn't need to go on, but she sensed that, for all she had given, Rapunzel would need one last push to make the leap of faith, and commit to steering her own people into the inevitable realm of war.

'I've seen them,' she whispered, barely audible, 'and I saw, I felt what they can do.'

'That's putting it mildly,' Plinus snorted, as he turned to face Rapunzel, 'your cousin got impaled by an infiltrator's bone blade; straight through the chest. And that's only the surface.'

With that, he loosed a strap at his own wrist, and let the cold gauntlets fall away, to reveal an identical set of skeletal digits as to the metal replacements Varro had already demonstrated.

'Their work,' he stated softly, before he quickly strapped the plate back to his replacement hand, maintaining the strange custom the Guard seemed to keep in regards to never removing their carapace unless the situation desperately called for such.

The room was silent for a good moment, before Rapunzel's face cleared, her own mind still swimming with the fears of what was to come, but still set upon a goal that had to be achieved.

'I'll speak to my parents,' she comforted Elsa, 'but I'll promise you this: Corona will not abandon Arendelle as long as we live.'

* * *

'As of zero-two-hundred hours,' the impassioned voice sounded, 'the Southern column was here.'

A red light was illuminated on the holographic map of the room, or rather, the Omen's interior that Varro had chosen for the briefing.

In truth, he was the only Council sanctioned Guardsman to preside within the steel shelter, as the cold winds battered the landscape beyond the Omen's walls. The others present all stood a good foot or two beneath his gaze.

While a clear plan of action would be the deciding factor in a battle the enemy would not expect, with the descent of a storm that was not of Elsa's doing, and the lack of any holographic display capable of projecting an image for one hundred and fifty souls to see, Varro had eventually settled on gathering the unit commanders under one roof, to lay down the coming events that would hopefully become a part of the future's history.

Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, alongside Birgir and Henrik, were all present and accounted for, after a late night landing by Tullius' Omen at a small clearing two kilometers North East of the battleground, alongside every other Omen that had set off to gather the allies of Arendelle. Now, the humans sat, clinging to their own darkened cloaks for warmth, listening intently to the lead shadow.

'That means they'll march into the strike zone at approximately sixteen-hundred tomorrow,' the Battlemaster went on, 'late afternoon; they'll already be starting to look for a campsite, and guards will be lowered.'

'You've each been issued with a comm bead,' he went on, 'so you'll be synced into the Battlenet. Anything anyone of any relevance to you says, you'll hear it. Timing a synchronized strike is crucial if we're going to succeed. When the countdown begins, lads and lasses, don't make the idiot's error on the go. We start at three, and fire on mark. I get anyone discharging shots at one, and I'll bury them up to the neck if the South leaving anything behind.'

'Since this, by all accounts, should be your first ambush, be aware that a false preliminary detection is very, very likely.'

He was simply met with blank looks. Anna looked like she'd seen him regurgitate a ration pack onto the floor, and Elsa was already drawing breath for some diplomatic way of demanding 'what in the blithering hell are you talking about.'

'That means one of us sees one of the enemy looking straight at them, thinks they've been spotted, and then opens fire, and boom, the synchronized strike is gone, the enemy is outside of the ideal killzone, and now they know we are there. Get what I'm saying?'

'But then, how do you even tell if we've been spotted?' Elsa asked, in no little confusion. Truth be told, Varro had no ready answer for that; such was a matter of years spent waiting in the bushes for the next hunt to saunder by, before the trap was sprung.

'Whatever happens,' he started, 'you tell your men to stay absolutely stock still. The concealed positions we're preparing should be sufficient to keep them from eyes, and even so, people will only see what they're expecting to see. Movement will draw the eye, then people start searching for the source of the movement. And when they expect to see someone about to blow their head off from the bushes, that's when they'll really spot you.'

'In all truth,' Varro finished, somewhat feebly, 'you are unlikely to be spotted prematurely, but if such does occur, no one raises their rifle to hit the threat themselves, particularly with a force so bent on discipline. They'll try and alert their allies, and if you start seeing them milling about in a panicked state, that's your cue to trigger the ambush early. Until you see such though, you instruct your men to hold their nerves. Clear?'

He saw the message sink in. That was the brutal reality of war, wasn't it? Nothing could be certain, particularly with these odds. Chance would always become the deciding factor in who lived to see the next day, and who met the ultimate fate.

'Once they're in the killzone,' he resumed, heading back to the more likely, and ideal situation, 'Obsidian team will open fire with the two concealed Executioners we've placed here, and here.' Two more points on the map, maybe two dozen meters from the leading mine, highlighted in dull red, it up at the simple wave of the Battlemaster's hand. 'Inflicts mass casualties on a formation in tight order. The instinctive result will either be to dive to the ground, or to attempt to scatter, and reform to target the Executioners.'

'That's when we'll detonate the Marxentine charges,' he finished, 'if we time it right, we'll hit them so that each regiment will be scattered in the same moment, and while they're trying to reform to face the threat at their front, the rest of our forces will emerge on their flanks.'

'Ideally, we'll stay at a range throughout the engagement,' Varro grunted, 'but truth be told, they're smart, and they've got artillery and cavalry. So, by the time they recover from the initial shock, and find out they're surrounded, the likely response would be to send their cavalry to break our lines, while the survivors dig in, and fortify themselves on the road; then they'll hold the high ground, with plenty of guns to blast wherever we're hiding. And even if we somehow kill every rider before they reach our approximate lines, we probably won't have enough munitions to take out each entrenched foe.'

'You'd plant to advance up the embankment?' Birgir, why was it was ways Birgir, protested, 'our men will be exhausted by the time we get up there, and it's open ground; we couldn't get more than a hundred meters before they gunned us down...'

'True,' Varro answered, somewhat pleased that the commandant had picked a viable flaw in his plan, 'and it'll take too much smoke to cover a battlefield that large on two fronts, but I read in your archives that a certain someone managed to conjure up a blizzard?'

At that, all eyes turned to Elsa, though without the fear they had once faced her with amid the final storm of the incident three years past. Now, it was clear that it could well provide their salvation.

'You want me to do it again?'

'Well,' Varro laughed in a light tone, 'if it wouldn't be too much to ask. Seriously though; the conditions reported are ideal; you managed to blanket an entire city and a fjord, and cut visibility down to a few feet. I think that could serve us fairly well in screening our approach. And besides, we've placed secondary charges along the embankment sides; they'll collapse some of the ridge at least, and even up the playing ground. Shallower climb for the weeners.'

Birgir didn't make a comment against that. After a test detonation of a Marx store at sunset, to prove its effectiveness over regular artillery to the commander, he had few doubts that the number of charges they had placed out there would easily flatten the field.

Slowly, but surely, the odds were beginning to shift in the favor of the North.

* * *

It was almost three in the morning when the late night meeting broke up, leaving an odd trail of black clad figures to depart the grounded structure, each ambling off in different directions. Naturally, Anna, with a seemingly endless supply of enquiries, was the last to leave, if one discounted Varro, who was still drawn over his map, alongside maybe a half dozen others of his kind who were now in deep discussion.

Kristoff had already begged off, with the need to catch up with Sven before the reindeer decided he'd crossed some bounds in their relationship for avoiding a carrot for over three days, while Birgir and Henrik had split to spread the word to the hundred and fifty others from Arendelle who had been chosen for what had previously been advertised as suicide with honor.

As the thought of the pair came to mind, Anna found herself mentally rehearsing the events to come, and, not for the first time, finding the Guards' 'map' if one would refer to a board of light in such a way, to not disappoint, as she edged the battlefield, careful to keep Varro's cautionings in mind as to avoid moving into the open and leaving a set of tracks in the snow for morning to come. The very last task of the Fabricator team had actually been to obliterate any traces of their work over the day and, though why they had obstinately refused to wait for her sister to deal with the effort remained beyond Anna, the Titulians' efforts certainly did not disappoint. An exact replica, in fact, of the road a day past, now replaced the drill site that had occupied it by day, with even the height of the snow fully replaced to original aspects.

'Better not let Varro see you out there,' Elsa's voice intruded, nearly sending Anna off her feet before she realized it was that of a friend, 'otherwise he'll have another fit.'

'Perfectionists, huh?' Anna grinned, as she turned back to view her path. Though it had wound through the trees beyond the fields that lined the road, nature's wooden constructs were not very well clumped together, leaving plenty of open ground between each trunk.

While she had doubts as to if Hans could spot it from that far away, Anna also had no doubts that Varro would spot it, and she hastily stooped to try and level the ground, before a gentle hand stopped her.

'It's alright Anna,' her sister whispered, 'I got it.'

A flick of a wrist, and Anna was quickly reminded of the cryogenics her sister possessed, as her trail disappeared into the wind.

She could have done the Fabricators' job, she thought proudly to herself, easily. Derinius would have certainly been fuming though; by now, Arendelle's royal sisters had both gleaned the fact that Guardsmen, for all their restrained actions, were guilty of one sin; pride. Surely, having a woman who was probably a fifth of their age to do their work for them, in the blink of an eye, Stormcaller or not, would have certainly been too much for even the silent Fabricator, and a small smile was allowed to break through Anna's face. Not that there was the gravest change in her features; Anna was one person who could always appear cheerful, but her sister noted the slight adjustment.

'Something amusing?' she asked lightheartedly.

'Just thinking of what Derinius would do to you if he saw that,' Anna replied, unable to keep a straight face, as they started to pace deeper into the trees with the road to their backs, 'anyway, how's Rapunzel?'

Elsa was able to drop the regal act in substitute of a laugh for that.

'Fine,' she giggled, 'until she met Plinus. Somehow, I really think he was actually looking for a fight.'

'You don't say?' Anna chuckled, 'I could almost feel sorry for Varro.'

The memory of the Blademaster, once thought to be the most controlled of them all, nearly losing it upon hearing that the trio of black cloaks deployed to France had encountered a demon before putting it out of it's misery, was enough to send the two into stitches, as they recalled the meek reply Varro had given to the Blademaster

'_Blame luck, Plinus,'_ Varro had given the berserk Guardsman, who had obviously reached the end of his tether being tied up with a bunch of recruits he couldn't kill permanently, and then missed out on what the gleeful members of Lazarus squad had described as a 'good fight.'

'Anyway,' Elsa grinned, eying her sister as they continued their walk, 'how've you been? The leg treating you alright?'

That certainly stopped Anna up short. Truth be told, the pulsing pain had all but vanished from her mind. It would have been completely normal, had she not known it existed.

'I guess,' she replied, before reflecting the question, 'you?'

'What?'

Anna froze. Of course, she cursed herself, how on earth could she have forgotten? What was the point in asking the black cloaks to keep the secret if she couldn't herself? She was on the verge of screaming at herself when Elsa's hands gripped her by the shoulders. Not in a threatening manner, like a certain Blademaster had on many occasions before painfully tossing her across the room, but in a comfort. The same way she'd tried to reach out to her lost sister on that mountainside three years ago.

At least she couldn't curse Elsa, she thought briefly, before they embraced, silently reflecting on humanity lost.

'I guess I should have known,' Elsa tried softly. Indeed, it had never felt the same after the incident, but she'd always presumed such a feeling was a lingering side effect of getting impaled on a blade. Now that she thought about it, the minor bump between ribs could have, should have never been mistaken for scar tissue. Not when it was perfect; regular in the world of nature, where the unnatural was deemed normal, just like Anna's.

'I'm sorry Elsa,' Anna cringed, 'I'm so sorry, I should have told you earlier...'

'It's alright,' her sister soothed, thankful that her own head was rested upon Anna's shoulder, where she could not see the tears, 'it'll be alright. We'll live through it, as we've done before.'

'Together?'

'Together.'

* * *

'Well if it ain't the Ice Queen and our latest Shadow,' a friendly voice piped up, as the pair parted through the trees, though one could never be too sure with the audio manipulators of the Fifty Ninth, 'don't mind us, just try to avoid the range.'

'What?'

Reflecting on the incident, Anna realized she would really have to learn when a question would be answered in due time. In fact, the words had yet to even leave her mouth when Girius had stooped over slightly, producing a blade from his boot with a single and, before he brought it up and let it sail through the air.

It thundered, quivering in the hard wood, against a tree that, on closer inspection, Anna realized was dotted with blades, each matted edge sunk at least half way into hard timber. A rough series of circles had been carved into the wood, and whilst a few, likely the first thrown, were off to the edges, the better part were tightly clustered inside, or within an inch of the central ring.

Suddenly, Girius' advice to stay clear was clarified, as another blade thundered away.

'Is it a contest?' Elsa asked in genuine interest, noting the presence of Ignus at the Guardsman's side, facing an equally butchered tree trunk.

'Aye,' came a stout answer. Another hit, and presumably, if it had been a real person, another beating heart ripped out through a man's back, and probably into the poor soul behind him.

'You want a go?' Ignus questioned suddenly, as he hoisted up a trio of blades for the eye to see, 'good practice, and boasting rights.'

'That's it?' Anna grinned. Girius only shrugged, with what was likely a smile beneath that helmet.

'No cash since the Council abolished it,' he laughed, sending another blade it's way, 'so yeah; bragging rights is about the only thing you win. And the experience to live another day.'

The invitation was fairly clear, and soon, after the slightest show of token resistance from her sister, Anna found herself stood in Ignus' place, eying her target as the vacated Guardsman removed his own knives.

'Alright,' he announced, clearly assuming the role of a referee for the match, 'three blades each; hit the killzone, that's a point. Anywhere else is a miss.'

'Killzone?'

Ignus only rapped his knuckles against the center ring.

'No point hitting the target if you get something more than two inches away from what you were aiming at,' he clarified.

'If you're ready,' Girius grunted, 'get out of the way, Ignus, before I aim for your skull.'

Their presiding judge only let out a belt of laughter at that threat, as he distanced himself from the range, though, Anna could not help but notice he placed himself on Ignus' side of the range.

Obviously, he felt his chances of survival were somewhat higher with a brother at his side.

Girius' first throw was already away before Anna could even blink, sinking deep into the very center of his mark. Then three pairs of eyes turned to her.

'Get him, Anna,' Elsa whispered encouragingly, as her sister's hand moved to her side. Unlike the regular Guardsmen, where rifles reigned supreme over any knife, Shadows were taught that, more often than not, a blade was the last line of defense, and it was a line to be honed. As a result, Anna's own kit of throwing knives were placed at her hip, in easy access for a throw, replacing the bandolier that most others chose to occupy with ammunition, and high explosives.

Plinus' brutal lessons coming back to haunt her, Anna breathed in deep, and in one fluid motion, she slid the selected blade out of it's sheath, and released it into the air.

It stuck fast into the lower half of the bullseye ring, or what the Guardsmen had dubbed the 'killzone', and Anna mentally berated herself for the miscalculation in distance.

If Plinus was watching from the shadows, she knew, there'd be hell to pay for after this.

Nevertheless, it was still a point. Perhaps not as refined as Girius', but still something.

The next set of blades also proved unchanging in the score, this time with Anna sinking her's closer to the center, but not quite; a fraction of a margin off to the left, thanks to the late release of her throw.

Last round.

Like a serpent leaping from the grass upon hapless prey, Girius let his last instrument fly from his fingers.

And that was when the wind picked up.

It had not existed until the hilt departed cold hands, yet it was stronger than a breeze, and channeled by the openings in the trees.

The effect was only a fraction difference, but it was enough to send Girius' blade quavering into the edge of the killzone.

'Bad throw mate,' Ignus commented, 'Well Anna, I'm borderline on that one. You hit anywhere closer to the center than he did, I'll let you take it.'

Girius was already alive with friendly protest, but such died down quickly, as Anna took her stance, and sighted the target. She had never tossed a blade through the wind before; Plinus had often stated that in the midst of his battles, bodies were often so numerous that the wind was negated entirely.

And if there was plenty of space, it simply called for a hellfire round between the eyes.

So she stood, uncertain, as she weighed the balanced mass in her hands. Throwing it against the wind was the principle, right? The question was how much, and...

_Hesitation will be the killer_.

She knew what she had to do. If she waited any longer, by now, on the actual day, she'd be long dead.

Closing her eyes, praying for something to aid her, she let the blade go.

When she opened them, Ignus and Elsa were alive in celebration, with only a hilt visible, buried at the very center of the zone.

* * *

Even Girius had been impressed to some degree. True, perhaps he had not offered his congratulations as profoundly as the other two, but, with what honor he had left, hands were shaken in mutual respect.

Leaving the pair of black cloaks to their own devices, with Ignus dutifully tearings the few remaining shreds of Girius' ego apart as old friends often do, with the thought of a 'young' veteran of a dozen wars being beaten at a knife throwing contest by a new initiate, Elsa could not help but realize an odd silence in her sister, as they made their way for the small area set aside for the Arendelle camp.

'Anna?' she asked carefully, unsure of what problem troubled her kin, 'Are you alright?'

'Aren't you worried,' Anna suddenly asked, 'of tomorrow? I mean, when we were in Entracus, I could do it; I knew what I had to do each time...and I just couldn't.'

'What do you mean?'

'Kill!' Anna blurted out, 'I mean, I might be able to do it here and now, but when the actual thing comes...'

She didn't have to go on. Elsa knew full well what had stayed her sister's hand; the very presence of a good heart at her core. Truth be told, she herself had been horrified when she'd resorted to killing one of the four creatures that had come for them in the night, but that was a creatures mutated and twisted into something beyond humanity; a monster corrupted entirely.

What they'd face tomorrow, they would be men; people with families to return to.

'I don't know,' Elsa muttered, nearly to herself, 'I really don't know. I guess, well, things might work themselves out, you know?'

'And if they don't? Then what?'

Elsa only looked down at an open palm in deep thought. With a gentle wave, the newfound wind that drifted through the forest abated.

'Then I guess we'll need to work it out ourselves.'

* * *

As they continued a now muted stride, neither sister saw the pair of dull red eyes peering through the branches, from a small V shaped nook in a tree barely meters above them, as their owner rested his back against the solid trunk. No small gesture escaped his gaze, ever since he'd begun his observation at the very start of the short contest between Titulian and Human, and Elsa's little assistance to her sister had not been missed, though Varro felt no animosity for a little 'augmentation' of the rules of a tournament.

Rather, he only found clarity, but perhaps not for himself.

'In all my years,' the Battlemaster mused to himself silently, 'I've never quite seen a bond like that.'

Their efforts to help one another, the fight between the pair, and the finest of the Fifty Ninth he had to offer...it all clicked into place.

Their footsteps continued to recede. Unlike any other hunt, Varro allowed them to drift from his ears, making no attempt to pursue.

'You'll find your way,' he wondered aloud, in address to two who were beyond listening to his words, 'in the same fashion you always do. As one.'

Like a spectre, the Battlemaster allowed himself to fall from his perch, drifting to the ground with a weightlessness and silence that befitted his allocated callsign in the Guard. A Wraith among shadows, he thought to himself, as he ghosted through the foliage, in the opposite direction, for the edges of the woods.

For while the Humans began their rest with the night's fall, such would only herald the next of many vigils for the black cloaks of the Council.


	16. First Blood

_Deceive, demoralize, destroy, and drink to the Great Father.  
__Old Shadow Guard saying, origin anonymous._

Unfortunately, given the late nature of their rest, it was no surprise that, come dawn, the better part of Arendelle's unit was still asleep. Aside from the rather disciplined Royal Guard, the camp was still in quiet silence, until Plinus arrived.

The shouts and yelps of fright should have woken her up, but after barely three hours of sleep, Anna's slumber continued, until she realized something was panting barely inches from her face.

Initially, next to Kristoff as she was, it was only natural to assume Sven had gotten an early start, until she felt the tip of a fang nudge against her chin.

Uncertainly, an eyelid half opened, to admit the sight of a maw filled with row upon row of razor worthy canines, and a pair of scarlet eyes behind a furious pair of flaring nostrils.

Instantly, she jerked awake, a scream already departing her throat, when she spotted a black clad figure upon the creature's back.

'I see you've met Diomedes,' Plinus grinned, as he rested a hand against the beast's side, steering it's maw clear from a fragile neck, and a thundering heart.

'What in God's name is that?' she trembled, still trying to recover from the shock of a thousand spines before her eyes as a wake up call.

'Well,' Plinus grinned, stepping off his hideous steed to pat the creature's neck, 'he's a Makar.'

The gentle tone he'd used was insufficient to convince Anna, so he responded by simply stroking the beast's tufted ridge of fur that ran along head, much like the mane of a horse, if one excluded the clear carnivorous nature of the beast before her.

'Fearsome, dangerous, but loyal to the end,' the Blademaster whispered, letting out a short bark of laughter as the Makar snapped at his hand, retracted in the bare nick of time.

Frankly, Anna wasn't entirely sure if her mentor had reached his wits' end after being deprived of blood on his blades for this long, but she certainly was not going to follow suit, and risk the loss of a few digits, let alone a hand.

On the plus side, she reckoned, as she blindly scrambled with a single hand in search of her gear, unwilling to take her eyes off the predator, Plinus' mood seemed to have improved since the previous evening. Whether that stemmed from his madness or the strange bond people tended to share with animals better thought of as friends rather than steeds remained to be seen though.

Grumbling as she tried to tidy away the disarranged mass of hair that always seemed to turn into the coat of a cat's overnight, Anna realized, to more than a little disappointment, that Kristoff was still snoring away, unaware that the Blademaster had nearly set an oversized dog upon them.

'Wake up Kris,' she whispered softly, managing to finish up one braid, 'they're moving.'

A slurred mumble, probably along the lines of departing the small tent with her trap shut. People never really thought about what they were saying when they were in that twilight zone between wakefulness and slumber, she had enough time to recall, before a slight cough from the open flap of the shelter caught her attention.

'You know,' Plinus offered innocently, if you're not up for it, I can always drag him up.'

'No thanks,' Anna laughed weakly, partly wondering if it was possible to die of fright at the sight of the Blademaster, in his wargear, at the crack of dawn.

Then again, she was still breathing.

Even so, the more she looked, the greater her astonishment that she hadn't keeled over from a heart attack of some sorts upon spotting their ruthless instructor.

Though the inside of his cloak was still the matted hue, the exterior was now a flickering variety of white shades, blending into the background of the winter landscape at a whim to the casual observer.

And then there were the pieces of flesh that were clearly ripped from things that were no longer alive.

Strung together in grisly bandoliers of trophies across his chest, they removed any doubt in Anna's mind of the capability of the Guardsman before her. The scalp of something with green flesh, a pair of bones, even a skull with a shard of bone rammed through it's cracked top in a gruesome replicate of the Fifty Ninth's regimental standard; all knitted together on a boney wire that could have been the spine of a creature not of Earth.

Wisely, Anna decided to rip her eyes upward, to the Blademaster's face, and away from his 'medals' before she emptied last night's rations onto the snowbed.

'I'll take a hint,' the Blademaster grumbled, before he marched off, into the depths of the forest once more.

Try as she might to keep her eyes on the spectre, Anna lost the ghost in seconds.

* * *

'Psychological warfare is just as important as the physical,' the Battlemaster noted, to a silent Elsa, as they viewed the chaotic camp below, and the ten Guardsmen of the Casket unit who continued to spread the morning call with their terrifying mounts.

'You convince the enemy he can't win,' Varro went on, 'and that he'll suffer a fate worse than death if he stays; the result is, ninety percent of the time, they will believe that fighting another day is better than fighting with you for another second.'

'I guess that's the reason for all the...' Elsa trailed off, uncertain as to how she was supposed to address the many totems of death the mounted unit were displaying, 'blooming terrifying items you've collected?'

'Well,' Varro conceded, a glint in an eye concealed away by a red lens, 'would you like to fight one of them any day?'

'Why do they even call themselves that?' she wondered aloud, drawing a questioning glance from Varro, before she expanded on her enquiry, 'Wreath; Legion; how did you name all of them?'

'I see,' the Titulian mused, trying to collect his thoughts before he gave an answer on the history of his regiment, 'well, each squad is named after whatever accomplishments they achieved during their first blooding, or battle, if you would prefer. Wreath over there,' he gestured vaguely toward a patch of forest Elsa's eyes had no hope of penetrating, 'got theirs because they decided to really follow the intimidation route a bit too far; took to scalping every single kill they made on Morthax; by the time the battle was over, you could spot each of their victims amongst the dead by the red wreath on their head.'

Elsa's jaw nearly hit the ground. True, the Guard were hardly knights in shining armor, and pillars of chivalry, but she was starting to realize that she'd only scratched the surface of the grim tales of the Shadow Guard.

'That is just sick,' she mouthed, but Varro was beyond listening, as he gesticulated down toward the Makar unit still bent on terrorizing the community in the woods.

'And Casket down there, well, on their first day, eight of their steeds were killed. One thing I will tell you about Makar; once you befriend them, they'd rather die than watch your own demise. But that of course means hell for the riders.'

'How many of them died?'

'None,' Varro bitterly scoffed, 'eight died so their masters, or friends, could live. I guess it's a as good a reason as any; Plinus decided to name the unit after the fact they must always lay one more casket than most, at the graves of the Fallen.'

If such was meant to convince Elsa that they would all be walking away from the coming battle unharmed, she certainly did not buy it.

The morbid nature of the Guard was, in truth, simply the beliefs of realists.

In war, people died.

* * *

'Rider to the North!' someone sounded off.

Checking to ensure his foot was securely anchored in the deepening snow before he took another step in front of his men, Hans ambled along the column, parting through the legionnaires that composed the vanguard of the invasion force. Of course, he could have just chosen to ride Sitron up there, but his own men were struggling though the snowbanks on foot.

As a result, so would he, even as the somewhat muted thunder of hooves moving through a good depth of powder died away, and the rider dropped aside gracefully, hammering a fist against his own chest in respect at the sight of his commander moving up to greet him.

'Is the road clear?' Hans asked.

'There's no site they could mount another ambush against us,' the Legionnaire replied briskly, all too ready for a rest after hours on end of galloping ahead of the safety the rest of the army provided, 'there's a small point where the trees narrow maybe a kilometer ahead, but after that, we'll be on the embankment.'

Nodding his thanks to the weary rider, and dismissing him with a gentle wave, Hans turned back for the command pavillion, where his men continued their work, tearing down the night's camp like clockwork.

His own brothers were, less occupied, to say the least. Philip and Halfinger were in another argument over whether it would be Philip's cannons, or Halfinger's horsemen that would bring Arendelle's walls crashing down, whilst Frederik was hunched over by a dying fire, collecting what warmth he could before the Legionnaires would douse it, concealing the presence of a eight thousand strong force as best as one could.

Only halting to share his own opinions on the fierce debate, much to Halfinger's disappointment, Hans took up the sloped incline at a slight jog, until he reached his now-eldest brother's side.

Torben himself was clad in a dark violet cloak, though if the cold reached him, he showed no sign, as he politely replaced the spyglass into his coat at Hans' approach.

'What's the news?' he asked.

'We're in the clear,' Hans replied, with a thin smile breaking through his lips. Frankly, it was the closest he had ever come to a grin ever since they had embarked on this campaign. 'I think last night was their last attempt.'

Torben let out a scoff at that. The previous evening had seen a last ditch effort by the ambushing teams that harrowed the march North, only to be stopped cold by a brutal charge of Halfinger's carabiniers. The horsemen had virtually ridden through the woods, scattering the attackers to the winds, and finally securing a day where they had yet to lose more than a dozen men, though there were still conflicting reports as to the casualties inflicted on the enemy.

'That was the last decent site they could have hit us at,' the King went on, 'probably didn't expect us to change for the Western road; it was rushed at best. Downright reckless, if you ask me.'

'Elsa isn't exactly a tactician,' Hans shrugged, slightly grimacing at the memories of his first encounter with magic, 'a witch, yes. A war leader? No.'

'Still,' Torben answered carefully, 'we can't afford to underestimate them. Everything they've committed to since we crossed the border was unexpected, and we're going to have to face them in open warfare when we reach the city.'

'I'm not too sure what you're worried about,' Hans said quietly, though he understood the importance in his brother's words, 'the mercenaries that attacked Entracus were hardly effective in a straight up fight. Guerrilla tactics, yes, but on the field, they took immense casualties.'

'Could you confirm that?'

'We had four bodies,' Hans scowled indignantly, 'and the rest chose to jump off a cliff rather than face us; I'd say we'll have a fair chance.'

'Yes yes,' Torben muttered, nearly to himself, 'mercenaries.'

Hans wasn't entirely sure as to the heavy stress his brother laid upon the term the rest of their officers and advisors had unanimously agreed upon when it came to dealing with the mysterious but highly trained force that had attacked the South's most heavily fortified keep, but he kept the comment to himself.

It was no secret that those same soldiers-for-hire were behind the desperate attempts to slow down the inevitable march North.

'Looking forward to seeing Arendelle again?'

Hans stayed any words at that, uncertain of where this was heading. His failure in Arendelle was certainly one that was discussed as little as possible between the two brothers, particually when the elder one was responsible for the ill hatched plot to expand Southern influences.

As to why Torben had been insistent Elsa died even before Hans' discovery of her powers, Hans had no idea, confident he could have orchestrated the situation around it. But that flash winter had quickly reverted him back to the original course of action.

And even that hadn't been enough, leaving a bitter taste in Hans' mouth at the very mention of that city's name.

'Not entirely,' Hans admitted finally, avoiding his brother's gaze, 'outnumbered or not, they still Z have a witch.'

What he had never expected was the wolf's grin that broke across his kin's weathered face.

'We'll find a way, Hans,' he promised dangerously, 'I'll find a way.'

* * *

'Where were you?' Varro hissed, as Tarus dropped into the foxhole the two were now sharing, 'Legion was meant to check in an hour ago.'

'Got held up,' the sergeant shot back without much care, 'heads up by the way, they have a lot, make that a lot, of calvary.'

'It seems Torben may have found a way to counter our dependency on camouflage,' Girius continued, crouched down over the sharp depression in the ground that the Battlemaster now resided in, 'they're using large numbers of cavalry to cover ground quickly, and we don't have enough guns to take them all out. Sheer volume.'

'Any casualties?'

'None,' Tarus laughed bitterly, 'if you don't count those that were meant to die.'

Varro didn't need any further explanation on that account. The previous night, as the icing on the elaborate deception of security on the Raven's road, Legion had launched a doomed ambush that quickly, at least to the South, fell apart into a rout.

In fact, twenty Guardsmen had met their end amid the ill fated ambush.

Twenty Southern Guardsmen, dragged into the woods amid previous assaults, and each with a holo cloak pinned into their necks to match the fairly standard appearance of Girius himself, providing the last piece of confidence that the North was finished in their attempts to meet the South along the road.

'Alright,' Varro whispered, waving Girius off to set up his rifle, 'split up; get to your positions and hunker down; comm silence is active now.'

* * *

The worst part of it, Anna felt, lying face down in a thick snowbed with a heavy rifle pressed in one hand as she continued to survey the road, was undoubtedly the waiting.

After realizing the pathetic rate at which the time recorder was ticking onwards, she had eventually switched the embedded instrument off the visor, leaving her with a pure landscape to view. And even that did not stop the horrid, gnawing feeling in her gut that soon, she might well carry blood upon her hands.

All things considered, Kristoff had handled it fairly well, if he was somewhat reclusive now after detonating a shower of blood in Entracus' halls. Then again, he had not actually taken a life; only brought her time to save her own, though the black cloaks themselves had shown little remorse in gunning down the wounded men where they lay in pools of their own blood.

But now, to even have a snowball's hope in Hell, every member of the small task force would have to lend their arms to stemming the tide that seeped Northwards, like a black stain of spilt ink on a map.

She'd already had enough time to calculate that each of them would have to claim forty lives.

Forty.

She'd barely be able to deal with one, if he didn't kill her first.

'You alright?'

Though on another day she would have found sanctuary in the voice, this time, Anna nearly leapt soiled herself where she lay, as she tore about in the snow, drawing a blade as she went, flipping herself onto her back with a knife in hand to toss into the danger.

It was only after she found herself face to face with a startled sister that she realized she had unthinkingly abandoned the perfectly good rifle in the snow drift, favoring a short edge over a fully automatic firearm.

Some Guardsman she'd make, she laughed bitterly, as the fear cleared.

'It's just me, Anna,' Elsa was still soothing, trying to reclaim something she still recognised as her sister to the surface. The wait was starting to get to all of them, she realized, as she nestled herself beside Anna, concealed from the road by the snow laden branches, pulled to earth by their burden until they were a mere two feet from the ground, with a heavy snow drift making up the rest of the makeshift bunker. If it would stop a bullet; that remained to be seen, Elsa thought grimly, but for now at least, it would serve the means of staying from the sight of hostile eyes.

'The wait is killing me,' Anna muttered softly, drawing a thin smile from her sibling.

'You should have learnt some patience Anna,' Elsa jousted, turning her eyes off the empty road, 'it might save you from ending up in Terinius' care again.'

'Maybe,' Anna admitted, rubbing her unprotected hands together as she let a breath escape her lungs into her cupped hands, warming them against the inextolerable cold. Strange that the only piece of Council wargear that could not actually fit the humans were two regions that needed the most protection, being the hands and head respectively.

Not that such had troubled Varro greatly when they'd enquired on the matter, as he'd calmly cited the fact that a helmet's absence permitted a greater spacial awareness, whilst uncovered hands and fingers allowed a far easier grip on a trigger.

Of course, Elsa thought ruefully, it probably also had something to do with the fact that Varro was not the one having to contend with a far graver exposure to gunfire and bayonets; two things the South would undoubtedly be throwing at them in ample quantities.

'You cold as well Elsa?' Anna asked in no little disbelief.

'What? No,' the Queen replied, before she followed her sister's eyes, to her own palms laid in the snow, trembling back and forth, uncontrolled by the mind behind them. With no little effort, she forced them to steady, though they never quite reached the stationary position.

Thankfully, the motion had dropped enough to advert Anna's concern back to the road they soon knew would be stained by blood.

If that would be theirs or the enemy's though, she still could not be certain.

The waiting wore on.

* * *

Kristoff was currently sat cross legged with a thick oak between himself and the road, as he rechecked the digital clock on his visor, only to find a miserable five minutes had passed since he'd last checked.

Why the black cloaks had even bothered to drag them up this early, just to tear down their camp site and leave them to freeze in the snow, he still had no idea.

Even Sven, always the optimist of the pair, was laid flat on his belly, hooves splayed out without a care in the world, as a careless snort from the bored reindeer sent up a plume of snow.

'I'm bored too buddy,' Kristoff muttered, as his eyes glazed upward into the cloudless sky.

Sven just let out another groan, and tossed himself over, probably either trying to stretch a muscle, or just find a means to occupy the time.

Kristoff was willing to bet on the latter, as he allowed his eyes to ever so slightly drift toward the massive creature that easily dwarfed even his faithful friend, unwilling to make eye contact with something that looked like it could rip him apart as easily as Sven could decimate a carrot without his presence.

The Makar was certainly not a beast to be trifled with, he decided, hastily shifting his gaze back to more friendly, albeit unoccupied allies.

The plan was, in all honestly, brutally simple for the complex deceptions the Guard had pulled off prior to the engagement. In essence, it was to gun down the enemy before they came into bayonet, and killing range, where their overwhelming numbers would quickly annihilate the smaller force that was thinly distributed along a kilometer on both sides of the road, at random intervals and distances to the path to provide no collection of bodies that would be decimated by a lucky barrage, in the event they were spotted.

Unfortunately, as a rider, that also meant that Kristoff and Henrik, both now part of Arendelle's admittedly small mounted brigade, were placed furthest from the road, behind the rifles of other black cloaks, while his wife was somewhere within musket range of the South on the far side of the embankment, barely concealed by a collapsed tree in the fields that should have screened the Raven's road from sane ambushers.

It didn't help to think that Varro expected a cavalry charge, followed by an infantry assault, to hit the forward positions once the South understood that they were under attack from both flanks, and that certain death faced their front.

At least, that was Kristoff's interpretation after a test fire of one of the two Executioners that were now secreted into concealed bunkers along the very road itself, revealed them to be heavy machine guns, armed to the teeth with hellfire ammunition.

In theory, that very amount of firepower would rip any tightly packed force apart, combined with efforts to stall the enemy from reaching their line, with Elsa's magic to cover one field, and the riders of the North to stall the other.

Hit and run, Plinus had stressed. Getting bogged down and surrounded by the enemy was a sure way to die while they bought time for the rifles to pull back to secondary positions. They would leap into the fray, hammer the enemy for a few short moments, and then withdraw, luring their furious opponents straight into the sights of the newly concealed Guardsmen.

Then the process would repeat; again and again until the South was thrown into absolute chaos and a rout, permitting the two flanking forces to then draw the noose, advancing once more until those that remained behind were encircled, and either forced into surrender, or buried under barrages of high explosive munitions.

Of course though, Kristoff told himself, as he drew a carrot from a dwindling satchel, theories never seemed to work when lives were at stake.

* * *

'Does anyone get any sleep around here?' Anna quizzed.

Elsa could only shrug, as she wiped a bleary eye.

'I haven't seen any of them take a nap,' Anna muttered again, this time half burying her face in the snow, 'they're just not human.'

'Well, we aren't.'

Unfortunately, unused to dealing with both fear and a Stormcaller, Tarus had yet to move when he was blanketed in a torrent of ice, locking him in place from neck to toe, before a look of realization and guilt came across the petrified Queen's face.

'Don't do that!' she nearly screamed, waving the ice away from a grumbling Guardsman, 'make a noise, or something like that next time, please, otherwise I'm going to have a heart attack.'

'A bit jumpy,' the black cloak commented, as he dropped to a single knee beside the pair, 'why don't you get some rest then; I'll keep watch.'

In truth, Tarus was hardly classified as a black cloak any more, as the cloth upon his back flickered at the cold touch of frozen water, reforming to mirror the snow upon the ground. It had taken them by surprise earlier, but after a few more lessons in technology, the presence of a hologram generator inside the cloak had eventually been revealed by the heads of the Guard. Now, save their shadowed armor, each member of the task force was concealed amongst the snow, protected by the chameleon skin each wore.

It had amused Anna to no little degree when she'd summoned enough nerve to question the Battlemaster as to why they chose a colour associated with death as the default; a new initiate, barely a fifth of the age of his age, questioning Council policy.

Unfortunately, Varro's morbid reply had quickly removed any traces of humor.

It seemed no one was expecting to walk away from the coming battle, alive at least.

'I thought...'

'We cleared the main encampment early to prevent any scouts from spotting the ambush,' Tarus explained in a clear 'I should not have to be explaining this' tone, 'that doesn't mean you need to drop dead from exhaustion.'

'Get some rest,' he finished, 'and try not to get killed.'

With that, the Guardsman was gone, although it did not escape Anna's notice that he only moved off a dozen feet before he sank into the ground, a shallow foxhole much like the one she and her sister now occupied, save the fact this one was far less...welcoming, with a hellfire rifle edged out of it's top.

'Get some sleep Elsa,' she sighed, resigned to the wait, 'we've still got several hours.'

'I'm fine Anna.' the reply came, 'you rest.'

'Right now,' Anna admitted, casting a nervous glance at her rifle, still partly buried in the snow, 'I don't think I could rest even if I wanted to.'

It started as a silent thunder. A rolling drumbeat softly thumping along through thick blankets of snow, growing louder by the second.

Cursing the strange law of slumber that always seemed to prohibit one from falling asleep until they were needed, Anna straightened herself up, out of the position she'd managed to finally fall into over the last five minutes of solace. Quietly, she nudged her sister awake with one hand, and dragged the black hilt of the rifle out of sight with her other.

'They're coming,' she whispered, shaking Elsa's shoulder slightly harder. Not that any sound escaped her lips; much to her chagrin, Anna had discovered Elsa did not share her tendancy to snore amid her slumber. Pity it had taken thirteen years to find out.

Carefully, she raised her eyes past the edge of the snow bank, but amid the gently falling snow and from her lowered position, Anna was unable to find anything that could kill her.

Yet.

'Wraith to all units,' Varro's voice cut across the comms, 'maintain positions; assault commences on Obsidian's mark. Say again, Obsidian triggers the assault; all other units maintain your position.'

Easier said than done, Anna and Elsa thought cohesively, as the red banners of the south finally fluttered into view.

They were beyond count; a sea of beige overcoats crisscrossed by the wooden rifles raised beside each body.

The worst bit was knowing that, despite the fact the enemy was now present, the wait would continue, only in absolute restriction of movement, and sound.

* * *

For the first time since crossing the border, Hans could finally breath a sigh of relief. It had been a tense few hour as the column passed through the last viable ambush point along the road, but the North had been silent.

Hopefully, they were still licking their wounds, Hans thought. If they had planned a military infiltration with only ten of the black cloaked warriors, and continued to battle their entire military with little more than three dozen, they were in short supply.

And now that they had eliminated twenty of the monsters, it seemed the war would soon be over once Arendelle decided to engage them in a decisive battle.

Of course, the question as to how they would eliminate Elsa herself remained, but Hans was now confident that the key was her sister. She had practically presented her neck to cut when he'd told her that she had killed Anna, and if he could just replicate that, the war would end.

Jorg and Tobias would be able to rest easy, as would his stained honor.

Even the snow seemed to be in agreement with their relative safety; falling in gentle swirls unlike the previous blizzards that had plagued their passage North, giving them an unrestricted view upon the untarnished landscape.

Most of his men were well relaxed by now, as the heavy burden of observation seemed to have been lifted from aching shoulders, permitting them to at last rest after days and nights of blind bloodshed.

Soon, he told himself, Torben would be satisfied, and they could forget about this affair with their Northern cousins. Home never seemed so tempting until one was dragged away from it.

Pulling back on Sitron's reigns ever so slightly, bringing the horse to a slowed gait, Hans was able to take a moment from the tense march, managing to open a clenched palm that had not managed to relax for the better part of the previous week.

Strange to think that it was only in nature herself that one could find the only traces of their foe's seal, as he eyed the single snowflake to fall into his gloved hand. Winter was certainly beautiful, he admitted, as was it dangerous.

In fact, it was perfect; six points, each without the usual soft and uneven edges, but instead, with sharp, angular points; an elaborate art piece by nature if there ever was one.

It was when the second flake fell into his hand that he froze in the saddle. No snowflake was ever the same, and certainly not one that mirrored the symbol carved into the killer of his eldest kin.

Digging his ankles into Sitron's sides, halting his friend in mid stride, Hans was on the verge of calling a warning shout when something stung his arm.

Or rather, something ripped through his upper arm, showering the two men closest to him in a grisly wash of blood.

Then and only then did he realize Hell had come, as the ground beneath him disintegrated into fire.

At least the screams of his men would be lost upon ringing ears.

* * *

'Open fire!' Someone screamed over the net. If it was Varro, or a member of the Legion detachment, Girius did not know, as he readied his rifle's scope once more, still cursing the bastard for moving out of place.

Having identified an enemy commander, and with the enemy already seconds from triggering the ambush, Girius had abided by standard engagement protocols, aiming for the nobleman's heart before hammering back on the trigger.

Ordinarily, the round should have punched a five inch exit wound through the lightly armored Prince before detonating it's ordnance a meter behind him, taking out both the target and anyone within five meters. Instead, Hans' blasted horse had stopped moments before bullet impact, resulting in a clipped limb, and one real mess of the poor sod who had been stood behind the Prince. Unfortunately, the explosive had gone off on the other side of the next man's body, shielding his initial target from the round.

Of course, Girius thought to himself as he realigned his sights, Alus Indrius couldn't have passed on Julius Fornus' words of wisdom even more clearly; _If something can go wrong, it will._

Morbid thinking, yes, but a realist would accept it, and account for the worst case scenario at all times, minimizing damage from other, reckless options.

Sadly, the impact had still been enough to hurl Hans off his saddle, concealing him within the milling crowd of Legionnaires at ground level from Girius' scope.

It didn't matter; when one was facing eight thousand targets, targets were always in ample supply. Already, Girius had sighted another man; by the elaborate sword he held, and the metal emblems across his chest it, it was a fair guess he was an officer.

Or rather, was an officer, as Girius pulled the trigger once more, and turned the rousing symbol of leadership into a headless corpse.

* * *

It was chaos.

There was no other word to describe it, other than total and utter chaos. The comm net had disintegrated in a cacophony of chatter, mostly made up of the Arendelle militia screaming for instruction, although it was slowly being phased from the ear piece, as Warden did it's best to section off different units to their own frequencies, with over half of the combatants unable to make the changes themselves. Meanwhile, on the ridge before her, men were keeling over where they stood; dying where they stood, as gunfire she could not see or hear scythed them down with merciless precision.

Her ears still ringing in the wake of the Marxentine charges, Anna tentatively pulled the rifle onto the makeshift firing port of a snowbed, trying to line up the red dot at the center of the lens with one of the many darting targets along the ridge.

Despite their overwhelming numbers, there seemed to be a significant lack of bodies that were willing to present themselves, and Anna was partly left wondering if the Marxentine had indeed single handedly obliterated Hans' force.

That was until a pair of musket rounds buried themselves in the snowdrift, and Anna was able to catch a glimpse of the distinct dark blue variation of uniform the Legionnaires used to identify themselves from the common soldier.

Convincing herself that it would take an absurdly, luckless shot to pass through the barrier of oak and branches to hit her exposed forehead; a target no larger than an ant for someone without an optics scope, Anna queasily set the rifle in place, flipped open the scope, and found a man filling her sights.

Truth be told, there wasn't anything gravely remarkable about him, if one excluded the slightly broken nose and a scar that ran along his right cheek; the hazel hair, a set of green eyes...

He looked like someone that, outside of a war, could have been a good man, maybe even a friend.

Anna did not need a reminding over the costs of sitting the battle out, but the more she looked, the harder it became to depress the trigger; a pair of brass medallions upon his breast, undoubtedly earned by serving his nation with bravery, and loyalty to the men under his command.

A ring; not brilliantly elegant, but still a bond, upon his left ring finger. In truth, it was nothing more than a piece of silver; a symbol of love between two people who were far from well off, but chose to face their lives no matter the difficulty.

The trigger refused to move.

If Plinus had been beside her in that moment, Anna could only imagine the fit he'd have entered the second she waited past the first observation.

Kill first, ask questions later; that was how the Guard operated. And yet, that was what had landed them so many a mess.

It was what separated them from humanity.

Anna couldn't bring herself to abandon that just yet. She could already see a wife at home, already pressed to tend to a band of children. He had the looks of a father about him, she noticed. Stern when needed, as he was now, trying to guide his men out of the killing zone, but with the capacity for compassion.

She thought she could see her own father, if only a shade of his being presenting itself now, to preserve what made her a person.

As the man in her sights roared a command to open fire, she made her choice.

Dropping the dot down an inch, Anna's finger curled against her thumb, gently kicking back the suppressed rifle into her shoulder as it' suppressed recoil bucked with the release of it's first round of the battle.

A second later, and he hit the ground, clasping a bloodied leg as he fell into the snow. Wounded and bleeding perhaps, but no longer a threat to those around her, and still alive.

Anna prayed to whatever God watched over their fates that she would not have to endure that for every man she had to oppose over the coming hours.

Sooner or later though, time would betray her, and it would come down to the split second choice, of choosing between her life, and another's.

On the far side of the battle though, hesitation was not claiming Derinius, as he nearly ripped the cannon off it's mount, spraying a continuous hail of fire into the oncoming fools.

Upon the drop, the Executioner he now held in his hands; his Executioner by matter of fact, was heavily damaged, having been slammed against a rock face as their pod hit a cliffside. It had taken a great investment in time, and no small amount of pilfering from Victus' store of spare parts, but it had paid off. Now, it sighed exactly as the day he'd chosen it.

Unlike his human counterparts, Derinius had never thought to personalise the chain gun before him, never giving it a personality, or gender or name for that matter, but it was still a friend. Something that worked to keep him alive when all else failed, as he swept the barrel back once more, mowing down the next rank of milling regulars.

The South's determination on discipline was coming back to haunt them once again; the tight rank formation they always deployed in open warfare presented one massive target even a blind man couldn't miss.

The only issue, Derinius decided, as he risked a glance away from the sights, would be ammunition, as the current chain of high explosive bolts began to run dry.

'Nius!' he called to the rifleman at his side, 'chain's nearly complete!'

His iron throat stang at the words, but with the adrenaline pulsing through his system, he did not care, as the sharpshooter dropped his rifle and locked the third chain in place.

As he did so though, Derinius could not help but notice the odd shift of movement in the enemy lines; it was almost as if they were parting to face their flanks, ignoring the largest threat to their clustered forces.

Why they would commit to that, Derinius had no idea.

It was then that he saw the reflection of light off a mass of iron.

'Artillery, front center!' He warned, before something pounded against the bunker's roof, 'target priority now!'

In an instant, the two demonic engines of death had shifted to the cannon batteries forming up at the center of the road, ripping apart framework, and the occasional body of an operator without pause.

Even so, the sheer mass of numbers was enough to deny Obsidian's efforts to wipe out the threat before they could open fire again.

This time, with the range sighted by their first misplaced shots, the oversized guns found their marks.

Thankfully, with explosive shells loaded to fire on what, amid the snow at least, appeared to be a pair of gatling batteries in the open, the second volley did little damage, with no cannon ball actually penetrating the thin but angled bunker walls before detonating.

True, had they been out in the open, Derinius had to admit, the shrapnel from those rounds would have made quite the mess, but until someone decided to load solid rounds that could punch through armor, the two crews could fire in relative safety.

Relative, as that person, namely Philip Westerguard, arrived.

The first warning Derinius received regarding the change in munitions only came when the first shell of the next salvo punched through the thin plate of the bunker above his head, sailed clean over his helm, before burying itself in the wall at his back.

'Displace!' he roared, spluttering as his damaged vocal cords came near to tearing once again, 'move it, Obsidian; second line now!'

Probably hitting Nius over the shoulder far harder than necessary to signal the fallback in case he had somehow missed the shout from a mere foot away, Derinius dropped himself to the ground, folding up the tripod mount for the Executioner into it's metallic body before he slung it carelessly across his back. Truth be told, it would not have been asking for much for him to simply carry it out in his own two hands, firing away as he moved; the carapace's integrated servos would have turned it's mass into the equivalent of a feather in his hands.

But with only a pair of fabricator forges still operational at Abaddon, and the production of standard ammunition taking precedence over the more specialized hellfire variant of the Executioner, he was on a budget with his munitions, and wielding the monster in his bare hands would have been too tempting an opportunity to miss, despite the fact he would have probably wasted half his rounds from the recoil.

Better to restrain oneself earlier, rather than later, he decided with a grin, as he backed outside at a brisk stride, bounding through the snow before a lucky round put him out of the thrill of the current battle.

* * *

'They've stopped firing!' Philip was screaming, 'Advance now, Halfinger!'

His brother needed no further urging, as Halfinger dug his legs into his steed, spurring the white stallion onward, down the broken embankment, with what horsemen still remained at his side, as they cut downward; half of their number forming up into a wedge on either side of the Southern line.

It was Torben who had correctly discerned the vast majority of enemy forces were in fact not at column's front, but rather upon their flanks, despite the daunting amount of fire that had just cut down a good pair of companies in the opening moments of the ambush.

In truth, no single company was fully intact, and many a man lay broken in the snow, his insides turned to a pulp from his proximity to a mine, or fallen victim to the hundreds of bullets that were still streaking through the air, claiming any man who looked to be of the slightest of importance.

And yet, despite the hundreds of bodies that now lay either writhing in the red tundra, or disturbingly silent as the snowfall continued the thankless task of burying the dead, there was something odd about the fire that they were receiving.

It was not as if hundreds were firing from the shadows, and then reloading as the next rank unleashed the next devastating salvo; it was more like a number of streams, each tearing into a few men, all too close for safety, before a long pause as the shooter reloaded their dreaded firearm.

Having already faced the fully automatic weapons of the Guard, it did not take Hans a great amount of time to understand that they were in fact, under attack by a gravely outnumbered force. One that would be driven for the hills or crushed under foot when faced with a bayonet charge of several thousand men.

'We still outnumber them!' he called, as an aide finished tying off a bandage around his bloodied arm, 'Torben! We need to close the range; I'll move the Legionnaires up and...'

'You hold your ground!' his brother roared, before turning to a runner to deliver a message that did not reach Hans' ears above the screams of the dying.

'We need to close the range now!' Hans retaliated, 'my men can...'

'Your men will hold this damn road,' his elder snarled, 'I'm advancing the regulars on both flanks; you and the Legionnaires will provide an overwatch and eliminate anyone who tries to flee before the charge hits them.'

Hans was nearly red with rage, though the moment was quick to fade. The Legionnaires were undoubtedly the greatest force to stride under the Southern banner; something he had made sure of under his command. They had the training, the weapons, the discipline; all that was left was a victory. Despite his many plans for expansion, Torben had never plunged them into war before, and now, he was about to deny his unit's chance for a glorious day.

An infantry charge was a suicide duty; they all knew the risks. But it won battles, and wars, and hence, such men were remembered as the victors, for their bravery, and valor.

'War is not waged for glory, Hans,' Torben hissed at him over the distance that spanned the two brothers, 'war is waged for victory. You'll get your chance for the former soon enough.'

A curse on his lips as he finished the rapid salute to his King, Hans pelted down the road, relaying his directions to runners that quickly began to relay the message across the battlefield to the blue clothed veterans.

'Start digging in!' Hans called, 'use the bodies of the fallen if you must, but get some fortifications up; we'll be sitting ducks on this road. Second and Third ranks! Cover First rank!'

It was a fairly effective tactic; the first of every three ranks in each company immediately dropped to the ground, pulling whatever they could into place to screen some of the fire coming for their allies, whilst the second and third ranks took aim at whatever they could, and blasted away, dying in turn against a foe they could not see.

Snatching up a fallen rifle from a man near death, Hans brought the rifle up to his eyes in a blink, dropping to a knee as he did so. Unlike their standard soldiers, after laborious hours of debate, Hans had been able to invest in a far greater level of weaponry in his men's weaponry. Indeed, each Legionnaire carried two muskets instead of the one, along with a single pistol, permitting three rounds where the ordinary man would only possess one.

And then there was the God-sent addition of scopes. True, it had been a real pain to convince Torben of the need to hit a target with extreme precision over even more extensive ranges, but now, the investment was paying off against a force that did not openly advertise their locations.

Trying to place the throbbing pain in his arm at the back of his mind, Hans look aim, an eye placed to the sights trying to locate a shade of that black armor amid the flawless, paled landscape.

In theory, it should have been a clear cut affair; tracking down darkness against light, but for the life of him, he could not pinpoint the source of the fire, as another man at his side fell. There was not even the slightest hint of the blasted enemy; no flashes of gunfire, nor even the bark of each rifle's discharge, save for the repeated whip of air as another bullet darted past him, and buried itself in one of his men.

Searching for the black armor as he was, Hans nearly missed the shade of flesh amid the snow before he jerked his aim back, wondering if his eyes were still haunting him.

_It can't be her_, he thought to himself perplexed, _she jumped off a bloody cliff._

And yet his eyes continued to lie, as Anna's face popped into view once more, as she grabbed at something out of sight, concealed by the snowdrift.

Fury taking over his instincts, Hans pulled the black crosshairs over the face, before he realized what he was doing. Was he just trying to bury the wrong he'd done her in his efforts to serve in his Kingdom's best interests, or was he avenging his brothers?

A split second later, he decided it was the latter, and fired.

* * *

Ironically, it was the same curse that Varro and Plinus had warned her of that ended up saving Anna's life. In fact, Anna was already rolling back into cover with a new magazine in hand when a musket round tore through the space her head had just occupied, and her left hand now presided in.

Not that it did much to quell the shock and pain as the ball punched into her hip.

Biting down into her lip hard enough to draw blood, Anna managed to complete the roll into cover, resting the back of her head against the dead trunk that lent shelter to both sisters.

'Anna?' Elsa called softly, scrambling away from the open, already sensing something was gravely wrong, 'you alright?'

Anna only had to raise a bloodied hand to communicate the inevitable. Truth be told, after everything she'd gotten through; falling off two cliffs, turning into a statue, and nearly crippled for life, a metal ball lodged in her hip was not too bad, if one did not note the red circle that was growing through the snow.

'It's nothing,' Anna tried to mouth, before the sharp pain in her side stopped her. Needless to say, Elsa was hardly convinced.

'Anna's shot!' she screamed, turning about to face the woods at their back, 'we need to get her out of here!'

A moment later, and the foliage sprang to life, as three towering black cloaks burst through, their rifles blazing steady torrents of death, whilst a fourth bounded forward, nearly on all fours as he reached the sisters' position.

'Where is it?' Marnus grunted, laying his pistol aside in place of the medkit. A brief gesture by Anna was enough to reveal the wound's nature, as the healer knelt down to observe it, not unlike their previous operation.

'Well,' he muttered, 'it's nothing as bad as your last one; I just need to pull the round out and dress the wound.'

'Pull it out?!' Anna asked in disbelief, 'can't we just get to it later?'

'If it festers in there, an infection is likely,' the Guardsman replied, alarmingly patient for the situation they were faced with, 'which we could probably kill off with the Purgance Virus, but still, you'll do far more damage to yourself if you leave it in.'

'Anna,' Elsa begged her, 'just do it; it's like a splinter; better out than in.'

'Well that's a load of bull,' Marnus hissed to himself as he rummaged through his kit, unsettling the two girls to no little degree, 'nope...too potent...maybe...no, definite overdose.'

'Hey, Marnus,' Anna managed, 'what's wrong?'

'I bought the wrong satchel,' he hissed, 'the painkillers in here are meant for Titulians; not humans. Half of them would probably kill you as easily as another bullet.'

'You left it at camp?'

'Nah, it's just back there,' he gestured vaguely, toward some point in the tree line, 'but in case you are wondering; no, I am not wandering back out there to get shot just because you aren't up for a bit of a sting. It's nothing,' he finally added, somewhat encouragingly.

On the other hand, Anna decided, that encouragement seemed to somewhat fade as he produced a long set of metal instruments that could have easily been passed off as a set of blades, and began priming them to dive into the pit of welling blood.

'Anna,' Elsa whispered, 'I'm here.'

Clasping her sister's cold hand, Anna turned back to the wound in her side, only to find it had lost all feeling. The bolt of pain in her head was gone; replaced with only a dull cold, as Elsa placed her remaining hand just below the gaping wound, numbing the pain. Before that fateful day, Anna's antics had seen her obtain more than a few cuts and bruises; things that could always be soothed or numbed by the touch of the cold.

Now that purpose had returned.

'Do it,' Anna mumbled, shutting her eyes tight, 'do it.'

Marnus needed no second invitation.

If he was anything, Anna would later admit, Marnus was fast. Faster than any surgeon she had ever seen, or even hear of for that matter, though she supposed it likely had something to do with having far more experience in wounds than the common physician, particularly around Arendelle; a sleepy city if one was looking for a fight, let alone a war and the marks it left. Within half a minute, he had pried the compressed ball from flesh, and set the nozzle of another sealant tube into the opening in her hip.

Experience did not serve to dampen what followed next.

* * *

'You either have the worst luck I've ever known,' Varro's voice echoed down the ear piece, 'or you have a magnet in your body, because you've been shot and stabbed more than anyone I've ever known over the course of a few days.'

Somehow, Anna highly doubted that she outmatched any of the black cloaks present in injuries at least, having borne witness to the piecemeal that was Varro's back, but she was able to suppress a comment, thank to the dull pain in her side.

'Better get moving, fellas,' another voice chipped in, 'you're about to have company.'

Upon a later reflection, Elsa found the instinctive glance backwards was unnecessary, if detrimental to her efforts.

One could have already told the fact someone was coming thanks to the drumbeat along the ground, but to turn and see the full might of a cavalry charge bearing down on one usually tended to induce paralysis by fear.

Something Elsa was rather susceptible to, as she quickly discovered, finding herself rooted to the spot, before Marnus took measures into his own hands and, with a casual disregard for authority, began to drag her back to friendly lines with a single hand; his other already gripping Anna by the shoulder in support of her movements.

'Elsa,' a voice beckoned in her ear, 'Any time now.'

'What am I supposed to do with that?' she protested, moving as quickly as her legs could propel her forward, 'there's got to be thousands of them!'

'How the hell am I supposed to know what you can do?' Varro shot back, 'you're the damn Stormcaller; you know your limits. Just try and hurry up before the idiots on the ridge decide to open fire again.'

The Battlemaster seemed to be strangely prophetic for a warrior who dealt more in thumping skulls than reading the stars, as another piece of iron whipped through the air, missing Elsa by bare inches, before it's allies thundered against the barrier of ice that jumped to her defense.

Still somewhat apprehensive as to what she had in mind, Elsa turned about once more.

The horses were growing larger by the second as their riders closed the range. Silver blades leapt from scabeths, hungry for blood. Their blood.

Resigning herself to become to the monster they feared, Elsa stamped a foot into the ground, hard.

The tundra landscape; snow piled into a soft blanket over a slumbering sea of green, was turned to a glacier in an instant.

The results were catastrophic on riders galloping at full pelt, when the ground under their feet turned from powder to ice.

Men spiraled out of control, with their burdened steeds slipping over the pristine surface, depositing their riders onto the ground, in the open, for nearly a hundred rifles to see.

In her heart, Elsa knew that it was impossible for everyone to walk away from such falls unscathed. Fate was a fickle thing, particularly in war. A fall at the wrong angle, a collision on the wrong flank, and bones would be turned to splinters. Men would fall upon drawn weapons. Some hit the ground, and did not rise again.

Perhaps it was a blessing that Varro's Guardsmen chose that moment to open fire into the tumbling horde. At least she could tell herself it was their work, and not her own, for every body that hit the cold surface, and remained.

* * *

On the far side of the field though, Philip's own charge was met with little resistance, as his horsemen plowed forth, drumming across the ground toward the woods they knew they would find the enemy. In truth, they were already uncovering opponents hidden in the vast gullies amongst the field, generated by uneven snow falls, as black clad figures rose to turn and run for the hills.

His own blade in hand, the commander of the South's cavalry drove onward, mowing down a pair of men who refused to move as fast as his own stead. All around them, the sheer numbers of his force butchered the stragglers who fled.

Or at least, a select number of those who fled, as some turned back, determined to claim their foe.

There was a marked difference between those to rout, and those to stand, Philip was able to wonder; the ones with full face plates; each shaped like a face from a nightmare, and each figure standing tall over all others, did not falter, did not flee where their brethren did.

It did not matter; it was a brave effort, he admitted, but one destined to end in blood and tears.

Spurring his horse on, Philip Westerguard's blade hit it's mark; sinking deep into the underarm of one of the titans, as it rose up from another of his men's corpses, screaming it's bersek rage for those who would dare to oppose it on the field of battle.

With the full momentum of his charge behind the blow, the carapace buckled, admitting the blade into flesh, but the beast continued to stand, nearly ripping Philip's arm out of it's socket as the hilt was wrenched from his grasp; left within the dying monster.

Cursing the loss of a good blade, Philip was already drawing his spare, albeit untested sword, when something massive, terrifying, and undoubtedly dangerous burst out of the snow.

Covering in snow as it was, there was no mistaking the fact that this was a beast that did not belong to Earth. Like an oversized wolf standing as tall as the mightiest stallion; graceful at a distance, but a hunter at the heart, as it's black fur rippled through the air.

The sudden appearance of the monster had been enough to stall the entire charge, as horses reared up in fear at the unnatural entity, nearly throwing riders from their saddles, or even taking to the winds from the predator.

It was then that Philip realized something was seated on it's back. A towering figure in black armor, draped in cloth that could have only been forged from the night itself.

A moment later, and he had vanished from the saddle, leaping off his own mount to plunge a cold dagger into one man's throat, even as his steed mauled the terrified horses within a claw's reach, ripping riders from their mounts and even snapping one screaming man in half at the waist with a single crack of it's jaws.

Before his own blade could fall, the Guardsman's hand swung out, with a heavy chain attached with a set of cold gauntleted fingers at one end, and a heavy weight upon the other.

Philip hit the ground seconds later.

* * *

'We aren't going to stop them in time,' Varro observed absentmindedly, 'there's just too bloody many of them.'

His words were quickly punctuated with another wet thud of a projectile sinking into flesh, as another man at his side collapsed into the cold snow, clawing at the opening in his chest.

'Aye,' Plinus whispered through a static filter, 'we can't hold them like this; the damn militia are breaking their lines too early. I'm sorry Varro; Lazarus has taken casualties: they are cut off.'

'Cowards,' Varro hissed quietly, cursing those who allowed fear to claim their hearts, and leave better men to an early end where it could have been avoided, before common sense took over. After all, he'd known the risks in bringing an undisciplined force of peasants against a killing machine.

'Step it up Obsidian!' he roared, emptying another magazine onto the milling forces that were still slipping over the ice sheet, 'we need to cut them down now, and someone give Marnus a damn hand.'

He had barely finished speaking when something exploded on the ridge ahead of them. A few moments later, and the ice wall that had previously shielded the retreating trio was shattered, no match for iron fueled by the explosive fury of black powder.

Marnus was the first on his feet naturally, and therefore the first to attract the attention of every eye on the embankment that had the wits to be looking in his direction.

Though he never saw the rounds hit, Varro certainly saw the results, as two fountains of blood erupted from the Guardsman's back, before the black cloak hit the ground once again.

'Marnus!' He called, 'Marnus! Stay down!'

'I just got the wind knocked out of me,' the stubborn voice replied down the comm line, before it degenerated into a hack of blood, 'I'll be fine.'

'You don't look it,' the Battlemaster shot back, as he turned his gaze to the small company at his side. Tarus and the survivors of Legion were present, but for the most part, those within earshot were milita. Farm hands at best, called up to defend their homes. Merchants, miners, craftsmen.

Men who had no wish to meet an early end, as they looked up at him, fearful for what he was about to ask of them.

He didn't need to look to the Royal Guardsman who led them; Varro already knew they would refuse to charge unless he gave them a reason.

'Your Queen is out there,' he bellowed, drawing a blade overhead he did so, 'as is her sister. Heroes die only once! The cowards have suffered death a hundred times before meeting the Fallen, so I'll ask you lads once; are you ready to become a damn hero?'

He could have always counted on Tarus' unit to follow him to the end, but it would take more than words to move men paralysed by fear. It would require leadership by example.

With a careless ease, the Battlemaster reached out his free hand, snatching the standard of Arendelle from the hands of one stunned Royal Guardsman as the crocus fluttered in the wind above the pair of red eyes.

'On me boys, for death is fate!'

* * *

Dismounted as they were, Anna had to give credit where it was due; the men of the South certainly knew how to navigate ice, as she craned her neck from where she lay, trying to pull herself up on her own accord.

Marnus still lay face down against the cold surface, having bled enough to kill at least two men by her assessment, unresponsive to the advancing footsteps of the South's men. Meanwhile, Elsa was silent, concealed beyond the massive black cloak's being, but nonetheless in a bad situation, as the white coated men at arms closed in for the kill.

Then, when they were barely meters away, they halted unanimously, frozen to the spot, each staring at something beyond her sight.

For a moment, Anna toyed with the possibility of Elsa having literally released all restraints on her policy to taking human life, when something tore into the tight ranks of muskets.

Having never seen Varro battle without an injury to impede his motions, Anna was rooted to the spot as the black cloak hammered through the lines without mercy, sparing no one in a berserk rage that seemed to have claimed every Titulian to follow him, as they each thundered forth, each chanting the same haunting words.

_Mortis est mea futurum!_

They sang the same words again and again with passion and fury, each a blur of motion as they danced with their foes in deadly acts that each ended in the same result; a bloodied Guardsman, and a dead man at his feet.

Off to the side, one man was raised high over a black figure, before he was hurled into his allies, his screams of protest dying as he landed upon fixed bayonets. On the other, someone was screaming for mercy that did not exist in a black cloak who had already taken the head of his officer.

But there was no sight more spectacular, or horrific than Varro's. No action necessarily gruesome to the sight, but the sheer callousness at which it was enacted was enough to turn a stomach.

The standard of Arendelle had become a blooded stake, as the Battlemaster wielded it like a pike, impaling a pair of men stood too close behind one another, all the while splitting a skull with his other hand and blade.

_Mortis est mea futurum!_

For a few more vital moments, they hesitated. The sheer shock of the spinning turn of events; a mad charge by a select few against several hundred men, followed by a bloodcurling slaughter of their kin was enough to root the invaders to the spot for a few seconds more.

It was all that was needed for the barrage of fire from the woods to resume, as men steadied their nerve, and followed their standard. Slowly, one by one, disregarding the danger of the sharpshooters on the embankment, men returned to their posts.

And off, far to the right, an ear piercing screech was heard once more, as the Executioners were set up yet again to deliver their uncompromising judgement upon the enemy.

Combined between the berserkers raging through their ranks, the rippling firepower tearing through their front ranks, and the demonic fire breather on their flank, the men of the Southern Isles chose what any sane man would, with thousands of their number already strewn across the field.

The trickle of deserters turned into a flood.

The rout had begun.

* * *

**Author's note: The battle continues into the next chapter fellas. If you've read this far, thanks for all the support and don't forget to drop a review.**


	17. Nemesis

_Befriend the dangerous, or bury them under the corpses of your own.  
__Estorian Quintus; Battlemaster of the Seventeenth Iron Guard_

* * *

'Hold fast men!' Torben roared, 'hold your lines!'

The battle was quickly spiraling out of control for the Southern Isles, as men fled the field, disorientated, and robbed of any rational thought by fear. They had marched to war believing Arendelle was protected by nothing more than a band of black clothed mercenaries.

Now, having witnessed acts only achievable by monsters thought to haunt dreams alone, few were willing to stay their ground, and die where so many had already perished for no gain.

The fact they were forced to clamber over the bodies of their fallen in their retreat up the embankment did not help to bolster their resolve, and for a few, the sight was too much, as to sped off, back down the road from which they'd arrived at the slaughterhouse.

Those few did not get far, before precision fire dropped each man, littering the path with the dead, and forcing the few survivors back to the center of the trap.

It did not help with the fact that Philip was now missing; the commander of the artillery had somehow ended up leading the charge cavalry charge on the far side, after their officers had been picked apart into piecemeal by sniper fire, and Halfinger had taken a bullet to the chest. Judging from the many bodies that littered the field, Torben had few doubts that he would not be seeing his brother again, as the twisted wolves continued to stalk the field, out of range from a musket round, while they rendered survivors with claw and talon.

And now it seemed, their few remaining cannons could prove to be their only lifeline out of the situation. Cannons robbed of a good commander.

'Hans!' Torben bellowed, 'get yourself over to Philip's post; coordinate the cannon batteries and fire on the treeline; they're going to come to us.'

'Aye, brother,' the youngest of his kin returned quickly, before he disappeared into the mass of bodies that were still, for the most part, in complete disarray.

With accurate shots wiping out his officers, who so often led from the front rank, but were subjected to no harm thanks to the general laws of chivalry on the battlefield, the Southern army was on the verge of breaking.

But if they could just dent the war machine out there, his purpose might yet be achieved.

* * *

'What are they doing?' Elsa asked, as Varro finished binding off Marnus' wounds, 'right at the center; it looks like they're moving the cannons.'

'Clever for a demon,' the Battlemaster noted, affording only the slightest of glances before returning to his work, 'they're giving up on firing at the Executioners; they'll try and start firing at us next.'

'That doesn't sound promising,' Anna mused, nearly detached from the situation, though that probably had something to do with that stimulant Varro had pinned into her, again.

'They're going to try and force us out of cover,' the Titulian went on, 'force us to either pull back, and give them space to take out the guns, or advance, right into their own rifles.'

'Kind of what we did to them, isn't it?'

'That it is, Anna, but they did not have your sister. Henrik; pass the word along the lines. On my signal, we break cover, and advance; at three hundred meters range, you stop and drop; cover our approach. And tell all of the sods to equip their thermals and wrap up tight; temperatures are going to drop soon.'

'Varro,' Elsa hissed, 'why can't we just take them out from here; it's suicide crossing that field; they'll gun us down just like we did to them.'

'If you can't destroy an enemy, befriend him,' Varro quoted, 'Julius Fornus' teachings. That there is the largest concentration of troops in marching distance of the Eagle's perch.'

'You are not serious.' Anna spluttered, 'them?'

'No point in wiping out a perfectly good army when there's another that needs beating up North,' the Battlemaster replied ruefully, slipping a blade into his hand.

'Are you forgetting who is up there?' Elsa queried, 'and if you were right, they're being led by one of the demons; he can't give up.'

'Very true,' Varro sighed, 'very true. Still, chances must be given, but if it fails, do not be surprised if we must spill more blood change will be met.'

* * *

'Target, right flank!' Hans called out, 'company, load!'

As one, the Legionnaires at his side rose from the sickly barrier that had shielded them through the firestorm. Through both life and death, their brothers had proven their worth, shielding those who continued to battle with their bloody remains.

Not that they would be fighting for much longer, Hans thought gloomily. At the present rate, his men were dropping like flies, while inflicting few losses in turn.

'I'll give you one chance to surrender!' The voice was more akin to a rumble of thunder from the heavens, but it's origin was unmistakable; far below, from the figure they now took aim at. 'One chance to save your men. Accept, and you might see home again. Refuse, and I'll personally bury each and every one of you.'

A quick glance around was enough to worry Hans. While the Legionnaires themselves stood fast, awaiting his command to shred the black cloak into a dozen pieces, the survivors of the ill fated charges were wavering. Faces filled with doubt, fearful of what other horrors remained to be unleashed upon their dwindling number. A few, most of whom had already suffered at least one wound of varying degrees, drew themselves close to the ground in prayer for those that they had left behind, and would not see again.

It was then that an equally commanding voice grasped the battlefield.

'There no cowards here,' Torben retaliated, fury clouding his eyes, 'there is not a soul amongst my number who would abandon his duty, cur! Honor and glory, men!' he screamed, now in address to his own forces, 'We'll take this field yet; we still outnumber them a hundred to one! Hans; kill that seditious bastard now!'

* * *

'Some honor,' Varro managed to hack, as Elsa and Tarus managed to drag him into cover, 'I guess I should have seen that coming.'

'No kidding,' Elsa muttered, 'I think even I saw that a mile off. Why on Earth did you even let them do that?'

'Why, to show the men of the South what a bastard they have for a leader,' the Battlemaster laughed, grunting in mild irritation at the touch of the ice that was creeping across the three holes in his chest.

'Well they seem to look for that in a leader,' Tarus grunted, 'the little dung heaps are applauding him. Aaaaand you might want to keep your head down for just a few moments.'

A second later, and something heavy shattered the tree trunk they were concealed behind with unnerving ease, sending splinters flying high overhead, though thankfully, no one was stood at the height of the cannon ball, leaving Elsa only with a thin trickle of blood running along her cheek, thanks to a stray piece of sharpened wood. Irrately, she brushed a hand against the incision, registering the presence of the red fluid, before turning back to her work, as she fulfilled the same procedure she had enacted for Anna's wound, though Varro seemed far less grateful for what it was worth.

'Hey, just leave it,' he instructed gently, before producing another syringe, this one filled with a liquid of an earthy shade, and promptly pinned it into his neck, 'I'll live.'

'Don't you need to take it out?'

'No.'

'How come he doesn't need someone tearing up his insides just to get rid of a bullet?' Anna groaned from behind the tree they had deposited her behind when Varro had made the choice to offer diplomacy to a demon.

'Because you still have your insides,' the Titulian spat, before he hoisted himself up, though he was careful enough to keep himself below the drastically shortened trunk, in the event Hans sent another iron ball in their direction. With as much caution capable for someone exposing a fragment of their skull to people with rifles and cannons, Varro peaked about the shelter, only to turn away in the blink of an eye.

'Down!' The warning came not a second too late, as Tarus flattened Elsa under a mound of carapace before the landscape lit up in fire.

By the time she was able to extract herself from the living shield, Varro was already out of the snow, and already alive with curses for the gun crew mad enough to try and take the heads of a Battlemaster, a Stormcaller and a veteran of the Fifty Ninth with an explosive cannon ball.

'We stay here, and we die,' the Battlemaster hissed, ambling back to drag Anna up to her feet, before turning back to a battered Tarus, 'send the damn word to any combat ready unit; tell them to regroup at the center of the line. We advance in five.'

* * *

By the time the word had been routed through the disordered militia, Varro was starting to run out of cover to place his men behind before they launched the charge. Exposing one's forces any sooner than necessary was distasteful at best, and a horrific, costly misjudgement at it's worst.

Even so, that time was rapidly approaching, as he readied his arms for war. Two hours of snap firing and displacement from tree trunk to gully, to the slightest cluster of rocks, had greatly sapped his stores of munitions, leaving the Guardsman with little more than three magazines to cross the tundra, and take on the foe at close range.

A suicide mission if there ever was one, he thought to himself, before his face broke out into a grin.

It would probably be his hundredth maneuver of the kind; actions that should have, at a glance, seen the total and absolute destruction of the black cloaks, only for the Fifty Ninth to cheat fate for another day with the employment of one factor, so small at any analysis, but proving to become the slight weight that tipped the fulcrum in balance in the favor of the Council.

In this case, that factor was slightly larger than usual, proving not to be a bizarre tactic or gambit, but rather, a Stormcaller at their side.

'You ready, Elsa?'

'No,' the voice replied, 'but I don't see that I have much of a choice.'

'There never was,' the Battlemaster grinned in return, as he raised the spear like weapon that now occupied his right hand overhead.

Elsa had been around Varro long enough to know that the wargear was not a usual addition to the black cloak's mobile armory; it was far too large to be transported upon his back, lacking any means to fold it up into a smaller variant for ease of mobility: something heavily stressed amongst Plinus' lessons to be the lifeline of the Guard.

_If you can move, you can keep a foe at an arm's length. You can riddle him with a dozen rounds without a scratch, or close the range before he has a chance to bring his own weapon to bear. You can dictate the engagement._

No, this instrument, Elsa noted, was not even meant for war. It was far too ornate for the functional ideas of the Guard; as if someone had given pride to it's appearance in favor of it's killing prowess, with the elaborate carvings that lined the sharpened staff's sides.

'Blademaster,' Varro called down the comm bead, 'status?'

'All units are ready for the assault,' Plinus replied, 'but these daft lads just won't shut up; doom and despair...what if we die...what the hell are we meant to do...blah, blah, blah; I say we just shoot them in the legs and hit the South ourselves: I might actually come out with my ears intact.'

'Request denied there, Blademaster,' Varro grinned, before he opened up a communique with every man and woman left on the field with an earpiece. 'All units, this is callsign Wraith. Be advised, the primary target is King Torben Westerguard: without him, the South's will to fight will be extinguished. Be warned that we believe Torben is possessed by a demon; expect heavy resistance, and do not underestimate the King.'

'On my signal,' he called, his voice rising to a shout, 'advance, in three.'

Cannons drummed their lines; bullets tore through foliage, and not a soul replied them.

'Two.'

The slightest shudder of motion amongst the foliage echoed along the entire line, much to the relief of a tensed Varro. At least some of his men were still alive, as their rifles were raised over natural defenses, permitting an easier path of motion onwards when the inevitable time came to advance.

'One.'

The atmosphere seemed to crackle; charged as each man steadied himself to face fate. With a deep breath, Varro hit the comm bead, one last time, and thundered the last instruction he would have to make.

'Charge! _Mortis est mea futurum!_'

His words were punctuated with the audible click of a switch in the spear he grasped in his right hand, as a concealed band of fabric was released from the staff, and Elsa realized it was none other than the standard of the Shadow Guard. A monochromatic bird, or more specifically a night hawk, with it's wings elegantly stretched to it's full extension, blocking out the sun at it's back. Underneath, were the words _Cura Aeternum_; something Varro had loosely translated in an earlier conversation to _The Eternally Vigilant_. Upon the other side though, facing the entrapped South, lay the fractured skull with the blade pinned through it's scalp, continuing it's manic laughter at those who were about to meet fate.

Beneath it was written _nunquam paenitere._

_Never regret._

'_Mortis est mea futurum!_'

The call was echoed all along the valley, each time repeated as loudly as the first, never dwindling; as fearsome and blood curdling as the first, before the drumbeat of boots hammering against the ground seized the battlefield.

For a single moment, terror gripped the men of the South; mad as they were, it was beyond rational thought for a force of so few to throw themselves at such numbers, only considerable by the most dangerous of the mad.

Then, a moment later, the heavy step of boots grinding both loosely packed snow, and flesh underfoot, was lost to oblivion, as a blizzard stepped in to replace it, and the momentary vision of the oncoming berserkers, leaving the despairing men of the South without their targets, and the knowledge that the hunters were still out there, biding their time to strike from the obstructing winds, while the war cry continued to grow with every passing moment.

_Mortis est mea futurum!_

_Death is my fate._

* * *

Hans was in the process of damning Elsa's very presence to the devil and his entire realm when the first man fell.

After everything he'd witnessed in Arendelle, it was only logical to assume such would be used against him once more; the tendrils of a curse now turned into a great power; each was a familiar sight, and there wasn't a thing in the world he could do to prevent them, save for taking the witch's head.

Each turn of events; he should have seen; the blizzard, the freezing of the field. Instead, he had done nothing, and his mistakes had been paid with the blood of his own people.

It was thanks to that helplessness and despair that eroded him to his very core that he missed the first warning to hit the deck, as hellfire began to pass through bodies once more, dropping men where they stood, trying in vain to pierce the howling gale.

Needless to say, the prospect of someone firing through the blinding torrent of snow with pitch perfect accuracy while it took one entire minutes of scanning through the plowing winds for the slightest hint of their position was enough to break the morale of the weary men for the last time, as they hugged the ground, praying for deliverance.

It came soon enough, just not in the fashion they had anticipated it, as a black spectre emerged through the mists, barely meters from the barricade of corpses, brandishing a blooded sword in one hand, and a black standard in the other, with the haunting skull painted across the fabric seeming to stare into his very soul though empty sockets that seemed to delve into the very heart of the abyss itself.

'Dress your ranks!' Hans screamed, hauling a cowering man to his feet, 'fix bayonets; they're coming over the line!'

It did no good; any order Hans had managed to restore amid the momentary cease fire had been shattered by the black cloak's arrival through the fog, and immediate massacre of anyone within a half dozen feet of his location, as the blade fell upon the men who had previously trusted their lives with the thin barrier Varro had now crossed. A pair of his Legionnaires, embracing their stout hearts, dove into the fray to halt the shadow, only to be dispatched with a casual ease that appalled even the would-be-killer of a prince. A single thrust of a blade through a sternum gutted one where he stood, before the sharpened end of the standard was impaled through his partner's knee, dropping him to the ground, before it was withdrawn in an instant, only to be replanted through his throat.

Two more names he had to avenge, Hans vowed, as he shouldered through the milling regulars, rallying those around him for one last push.

The flintlock at his side snapped clear of the holster, and, placing the crude sights upon it's muzzle over the black cloak's head, Hans withdrew his index finger, triggering the spark at the pistol's core.

Unfortunately for Hans, the Southern Prince had not borne witness to the effects of extreme cold upon rifles, particularly in Elsa's case, where ice tended to form even in places where no water could be found.

Much like Varro upon his first greeting with the Snow Queen, Hans was sent backwards with explosive force, as his pistol ripped itself apart in every direction, save the one he had been pointing it in, thanks to the ice that had filled it's insides to the core.

For a moment, he was stunned, unable to comprehend what had just occurred, until another legionnaire at his side pulled his own rifle up to his eyes, sighting the Battlemaster just as he had.

Unfortunately for the man, unlike the pistol Hans had used, which had been placed a good deal from his body when the trigger had been pulled, the Legionnaire's rifle was placed straight against his eye when it detonated.

'Hold your fire!' Hans screamed, barely over the howls of agony of a blinded man, 'hold your fire! The witch is close! Fix your bayonets! Hold the line!'

* * *

Clearing the grisly barricade with a gentle leap, Anna hit the ground on both feet, before nearly toppling over, as a foot hit something that was not snow.

Carelessly, she thrust a hand out to halt her fall, only for it too to connect with an entity.

Something slick with a liquid she truly regretted seeing when she pulled her red hand up for the eye to see.

There was simply no way someone could negotiate the battlefield, she realized; there were corpses everywhere. Not simply littering the ground, but creating an entire blanket across the layers of snow, as Varro continued to butcher his way forth, along with the dozen or so brothers he had at his side.

The warriors of the Legion and Casket units simply tore apart any and all opposition. In fact, it would have been foolhardy to even address the defense as an opposition; the Guard might as well have been butchering livestock, as rifles jammed or detonated in hands, and bayonets proved no match for the untold fury of the Guard.

Grimly, Anna realized that the new, bloody ground was growing, in exact accordance to the advance of the shadows' line.

If she was going to be able to walk, she'd need to reach the front.

And then she would probably be killed, or kill in turn.

Both prospects were enough to paralyse her for a few moments, before she remembered where she was; buried up to her neck in the dead.

Pushing herself onward with nothing more than the will that had seen her through the winter curse, Anna scrambled forward, leaving the piles of the dead behind her, as a blade left her sheath.

With as many enemies facing him as there was, it was no surprise that at least one man had managed to slip past the line of battle, although, Anna quickly decided on a closer inspection, he had likely already seen his fair share of battle, and then left for dead, judging from the massive purpled bruise across his forehead, as he raised his rifle and bayonet high like a spear to plant in the Battlemaster's back.

In another moment, Varro would be dead.

Trying as best as she could to recreate the smooth motion of the previous evening, Anna let the short blade fly from her fingertips.

The edge pinned itself into the man's knee, dropping him with a yelp back into the snow at his feet, before a swift blow to the head from a gauntlet of iron knocked him out cold.

'Thanks,' Varro chipped down the comm bead without pause, as he ran another man through in the same heartbeat, 'glad you didn't hesitate too long.'

Anna did not bother to attempt a reply, as she ambled past the bloody field, coming face to face with a screaming Legionnaire, as he wrenched a bayonet from a Guardsman's side, having taken advantage of the superior numbers his foe had faced.

The blade stabbed forward again, but this time, it only passed through empty space, as Anna began to employ the long drills Plinus had hammered into her mind over the weeks of hell on earth.

A short blade clasped in each hand, Anna simply sidestepped the pike, before a single dagger flicked out, drawing a line of red across the Legionnaire's right hand, dropping the rifle from his grasp.

Stunned at the prospect of his superior being none other than a young woman, the Legionnaire never saw the closed fist strike him under the chin before darkness claimed his sight.

* * *

On the far side of the field though, Plinus was holding suitably fewer concerns for morals, as he tore into the routing lines atop Diomedes, with eight other Hunters of Wreath squad in tow, and the full might of Arendelle's cavalry.

While they might have looked finer than their capacity in war, Plinus had to admit that his earlier assessments of the horses before him were inaccurate at best. They charged onward without fear, having finally learned to grasp the fact that the Makar meant them no harm, and having already been trained for the horrors of any war they could have expected; as their thundering hooves trampled anyone missed by both Makar and riders.

But even so, the Blademaster grinned, as he threw a leg over Diomedes' back, and threw himself off his old friend, barreling into the sprawling men below, none could best a Makar.

Only two of their number had fallen so far; Serinius and Phoebus, but they had died as any Guardsman should; surrounded by the countless bodies of their victims, and with a weapon in hand; an end worthy of a song for remembrance. And as always, their steeds had died before them in a similar fashion; rending the foe with tooth and talon.

Plinus, on the other hand, simply opted for his knives; a single blade through a mouth gaped wide in surprise dealt death just as quickly and effectively as a savage bite that tore one unfortunate in half.

Kicking the flailing corpse to the side, Plinus charged the rank upon rank of Legionnaires before him without fear. By now, with at least several dozen of their number having fallen victim to their own weapons, even the foolhardy knew that pulling the trigger could only result in their own demise as long as the Queen of Arendelle survived.

The phalanx of bayonets presented to him held no perils to the Blademaster; a single sweep with a lead blade removed the ones deemed a threat off to his left, before he was amongst them once more, leaving a mark upon history in the only fashion a Guardsman of the black cloak knew: leaving a trail of blood, and a mountain of corpses in his wake.

* * *

Confident that the man Sven had sent flying was not getting up anytime soon, Kristoff swung himself off the reindeer's back, pulling the cut down rifle from the mesh net that was currently worn by his friend.

Like the rest of the Makar riders, Kristoff had no use for a saddle upon his steed, leaving enough space for the combat mesh each Hunter placed upon his four legged hunting partner. The nature of the interwoven wire still permitted great mobility to the mount, and in turn presented the rider a place to store unwanted equipment that could be freed at a moment's notice, while evenly distributing the weight across their ally's back to prevent fatigue.

The scatter rifle snapped clean out of it's storage, and not a moment too soon, as a pair of Legionnaires raced down the mound of corpses that were quickly piling up in the wake of Plinus' fury.

A moment later, and both men had hit the ground, one clutching a mauled leg, whilst the other stared down in horror at the bloody mess that was his gut.

Try as he might, Kristoff could not pull the trigger again. There were still more than enough rounds in the current magazine to shred the two assailants apart, but there was just no point.

They were both no longer a threat, and frankly, he didn't think he could live with himself if he pulled that metal curve once more.

Slowly, the muzzle fell.

A second later, and Kristoff fell back, still reeling from shock, as the two mens' heads detonated with explosive fury. Startled, he retreated, only to back away into an iron wall.

'No regrets, lad,' the Guardsman hissed, lowering a smoking pistol, 'until they surrender, every man is a threat. You'll do well to remember that.'

* * *

Despite the unrelenting fury of the counterattack though, the South's numbers once again began to tell, particularly once more leve heads began to comprehend that only a hundred or so bodies that thrown themselves into the attack, whilst the rest traded shots with Legionnaires, concealed by the blinding blizzard. For every man that fell against the rage of the Fifty Ninth, a dozen seemed to spring to replace him, as the rearguard of the army, and the retreating vanguard, began to close in upon the center of the formation, where the Guard had concentrated their charge, enveloping both assault groups in a dangerous pincer.

For Varro though, such was irrelevant, as he pinned the sharpened end of the standard through another man's sternum, leading the remnants of a battered Legion team to the very heart of their foe, in search of the one man who could end the bloodshed, by his own fall.

With Girius having chosen to stay behind with the wounded Marnus, Legion's numbers continued to dwindle; a pair of bayonets found their mark, dropping Ignus to the bloodsoaked ground, though, with adrenaline flooding his system, the Guardsman refused to yield to fate, smiting both Legionnaires in a few short moments within receiving the wounds. A few steps later, and he was joined in the dirt by Hestus, as a lucky cannon round barreled through the broken lines, scything both Southerners, and the black cloak's leg out from underneath him.

By the time the company reached the summit of the embankment, Anna was at the end of her reserves, whilst the Guardsmen continued to plough onwards.

A burly Legionnaire descended upon her, only him to be brought down by a pair of black cloaks, before Quintus and Regius produced their blades, hacking the body trapped beneath their combined masses into piecemeal. Off to the right, Tarus had indulged in a rampage, ripping into the fleeing men with the remains of a staff that had once carried the Southern cross. Now, all that remained of it's elaborate heritage was the blood that now stained it's length, as the Guardsman hammered anybody daring to come within an arm's reach with the hickory stave, breaking bones and limbs with very strike.

And at the center of course, Varro continued his own massacre. Unlike the others, where a berserk fury to utterly decimate whatever came into reach seemed to take hold, every one of Varro's actions seemed to serve a purpose. There were no unnecessary injuries; only an immediate death, followed by the next.

Catching the muzzle of a rifle swung down at his head, and twisting the instrument off to it's side, the Battlemaster lunged forward, driving the blade in his free hand deep into the man's exposed side, before immediately withdrawing, slashing out at another stroke from his right, drawing blood from a forearm and driving the hesitant man back, giving the black cloak enough time to address the next threat that presented itself. A single, careless parry later, and the rifle had been sent upwards, into the air, out of weary hands, before the blade had been brought back, and driven across in a horizontal slash, tearing out the Legionnaire's throat in a single action.

Then, without much of a thought, having cleared the immediate space, Varro had spun about with only a single foot still attached to the ground, slamming an armored boot into the man he had stunned moments before, crushing the skull beneath pale flesh, and sending fragments of bone deep into the soft tissue it had once protected.

The Southerner was dead before his limp corpse hit the ground.

By that time, Varro had already started upon his next victim.

Wrenching the standard of the Fifty Ninth out of the last body it had impaled upon the ground, Varro hurled the bloodied staff through the air, his eyes already narrowed upon one of the few officers who had managed to survive the firepower of Obsidian, even as he tried to rally his fleeing men for one last desperate push.

A moment later and he had joined his men in death.

* * *

Torben looked on at the slaughter beneath him with a seething rage that even the howling blizzard could not extinguish.

To be undone by the deceptions of a low born of Titan, a cursed witch, and her sister; there would be no greater shame than such a defeat.

Though lordship had claimed many of his years, those years seemed to fade away now, with a goal burning through his very eyes. All three were here; there was still a chance to end this insurrection now, and deliver his men from the jaws of death.

Pulling the silk gloves from his weathered hands, and allowing them to depart into the winds, Torben pulled a frigid blade from it's sheath, advancing down from his command post, to join his men in either glory and victory, or the end that would come for them all eventually.

'To me!' he commanded, turning the heads of those whose hearts filled with doubt against a foe that seemed to be one with the dark, 'Advance!'

His first glimpse of the horrors they were facing came to him in the same form Hans had witnessed the spectres emerging from the mist; the black fabric gliding through the wind, with a grinning skull of a dead man cackling at his fate contort across the standard that now lay pinned in one of his men; one of thousands that now littered the field.

With a fresh cohort of his bodyguards at his side, Torben raced down the embankment. Unable to reach the lead Guardsman, as his Legionnaires swarmed over the black cloak, Torben settled for the next man to come in range; another black cloak, perhaps of less authority than the first, but nevertheless with the blood of the South drenching his form.

Refusing to abandon caution, Torben parried the first pair of strokes that struck his blade, though the speed at which the two were delivered could not be denied.

But such was all the time he'd need, as the remainder of the formation caught up, and encircled the black cloak.

A bayonet through the leg was enough of an opportunity for the King to run his blade through the besieged Guardsman, before he withdrew the blade, slick with blood too dark to belong to a human.

Empowered by the first strike, Torben was on the verge of drawing back for another blow, when something warned him of the immediate danger to his flank. Instantly, the blade was thrown in a hasty defense, barely halting the sword stroke that had been aimed to slit the tendons in his leg, as he came face to face with the soul he had heard so much about, and yet never had the opportunity to meet face to face.

Maybe she wasn't the sister that had to die, but for now at least, Torben would settle for the blood of kin.

* * *

Elsa saw it all, as she raced past the mound upon mound of fresh corpses strewn across barricades of the dead. Even amid the howling blizzard, she could still see it; a black cloak fluttering in the wind behind a strawberry blonde head, and enveloped by at least a dozen navy blue vests.

Slamming a foot into the ground, and freezing a new layer of ice over the fallen, Elsa darted over the flattened landscape, every grateful for long hours of practice across the material she had once feared.

Up ahead though, Elsa could not be certain if it was indeed Anna she was witnessing, as two Legionnaires stepped forward from opposing directions, only for their muskets to pass through the open air.

A moment later, and both men were reeling backwards, clutching open wounds across the backs of their hands, as the wooden shafts dropped to the ground, unbloodied.

Elsa had not even seen the strokes that had deflected the lethal lunges. It was almost as if something had taken Anna's place on the field, and yet, the closer she drew, it was unmistakably the sister she had kept at a distance for years, and then forged the closest of bonds.

But the numbers were beginning to tell, as the remaining Legionnaires threw themselves into the fray, each wielding their rifle like a spear, aimed for her heart. Easily outnumbered ten to one, Anna was forced to give ground; meter by meter, each parry slowly losing the lighting speed with which she had first struck with, as her arms finally began to tire.

Her unwillingness to permanently eliminate her opponents was also beginning to haunt her, as the first two men hurled themselves back into the fray, abandoning all thought of self preservation as their king entered the fray, wrestling Anna to the ground in a fury of blows as they tackled her to the ground.

An elbow strike shattered one man's nose, sending him reeling backwards, before his ally, having pinned her to the ground, strangled Anna's head, pulling her off the ice her face had been pressed against. Then, with a battle without morals having already claimed any chivalry remaining, he slammed her forehead back into the frozen surface.

Or at least, he would have, had the ice not disintegrated moments before, replaced by a thick layer of snow at a single thought.

Caught off guard as her opponent was, Anna seized the opportunity, sending one leg flying upwards, directly between the Legionnaire's, and he fell to the side, screaming in agony as she scrambled out from the snow bank, desperately drawing another blade from her sheath before a heavy boot sent it flying from her grasp, and a number of hands dragged her upright, to face a haggard look alike of Hans himself.

That was enough of an excuse of Anna to spit into Torben's eye, before she realized it was a deep shade of red, as the regent wiped it away from his sight.

'You stopped my brother?' he asked in near amusement, 'I should probably kill the bleating idiot if that's the case.'

With that, he went to draw his sheathed blade once more, only to find unrelenting steel answering his grip.

* * *

Down below, satisfied Torben's blade was securely frozen in place, Elsa took a step forth to continue her race to her sister's side, only to find a bolt of pain coursing up her outstretched leg, dropping her painfully against the ground that only seemed to harden even further in her panic.

Dimly, she realized a knife had appeared in her leg, as she tried in vain to drag herself forward another meter, cursing her carelessness in running into a dropped weapon, frozen high above the ground by her own actions...

The searing pain returned, and dragged her back.

Elsa was unable to suppress the involuntary scream that departed her lips, as she tore her head backwards, to find a concussed Hans dragging himself out of the dirt, fury contort in his eyes.

Amid his mad charge up the ridge, it had only been natural for Varro to be incapable of dealing with every enemy he faced with lethal force, sometimes opting to resort to blunt, and concussive force when the edges of blades were unavailable.

Unfortunately, Hans had been one of the lucky few.

Screaming something incoherent regarding his already apparent hatred for those that had sent him back to his homeland in shame, Hans tore the straight edge from Elsa's leg, painting the ground in her blood, as he uneasily rose to his feet, drawing up the blade for the final blow.

'Elsa!'

Undoubtedly, Elsa managed to think, that would be Anna. Torben must have spotted the scene below, and allowed Anna one final sight of her sister before Hans tore out her heart.

Sick bastard, she thought, as she spun herself about to face her killer. Try as she might, as her strength faded, as did her powers, with a blast of cold proving pathetically insufficient against the oncoming Prince.

'Don't look Anna,' she pleaded softly, as she closed her eyes, waiting to see her parents once more.

If Hans didn't do it himself, it would break her heart to know that her passing destroyed her sister.

* * *

It was the roar of the wolf, rather than the prayers of her sister, that broke Anna's horrified gaze upon the murder below. Truth be told, such was easier said than done with two men pressing her down onto her knees whilst a third held her facing her sisters' demise, but at the cry of the hunter, every man broke, as Anna spun about, to find the massive beast tearing down upon their number; the rider upon it's back drenched in the blood of his foes, even as he raised a blood stained blade to continue his rage.

Sensing her captors' hold upon her arms weakening at the sight of Diomedes and Plinus descending upon the small party, Anna ripped her head out of the third man's grasp, bloodying his face as he instinctively retreated, clutching his nose.

Rounding about, Anna immediately planted a fist into her other captors' eyes, before an immense pressure returned to her neck, as the last man wrapped his arms about her neck in a chokehold.

Instinct quickly falling to reason, a hand scrambled for one of the many blades still attached to her side as she fought for breath, the image of Hans standing over her sister still burning fresh in her mind. The hilt popped loose, and Anna rammed the blade backwards.

She did not even halt to check if he still breathed, before his arms went limp, and Anna tore herself free, rocketing down the slope before that blade could fall once again.

Her leap taking her underneath the descending blade, Anna barreled into Hans with the force of a cannon ball, ripping him off his feet, before she pinned him to the ground, sending the blade flying through the air.

'Get off me, Anna,' the Prince hissed, though, try as he might, he could not remove the weight of carapace that kept him locked to the ice.

'Give up Hans,' Anna shot back, 'it's finished; we're killing each other here while the real enemy is up North; order your men to surrender, before...'

She didn't get any further before Hans' fingers closed around one of the many hilts at her waist, wrenching the dagger out into the cold air, and then plunging it back down into her thigh.

Immediately, Anna threw herself off the Prince before he could land a more deadly blow, even as she cursed herself for letting her guard down so easily. Scrambling upright, Anna produced two more short blades, before she saw her sister trying to rise once more.

This time, instinct prevailed, as she started forward, completely oblivious to Hans' disappearance from the ground. As a result, the first warning she received of the threat the Prince's continued to present was when the Prince charged through the fog, and at full sprint, smashed a heavy boot against Elsa's chin, dropping her back into the snow, unmoving.

A second later though, and he was forced to dive aside again, narrowly avoiding the blade that spun through the air, aimed for his cold heart.

By the time he had extracted himself from the snow bank again, Anna had reached her sister's side, and was currently knelt low, with a pair of fingers placed to Elsa's neck.

A slight beat coursing under her fingertips was all she needed for her to rise yet again, placing herself between the hostile edge of a blade and her kin one last time.

'I'm going to enjoy this,' Hans whispered, tossing the dagger between his palms, 'I've lost track of how long I've waited for this.'

'I guess you'll have to wait a little longer,' Anna shot back through gritted teeth, placing a single hand across her bleeding leg. Combined with the gunshot from earlier, she was somewhat forced to favor her right side; something she knew any half decent swordsman would take advantage of.

'It's not like I don't understand you, Anna,' he continued, that smug grin returning to his face as his eyes fell upon the growing stain of red that clung to her left flank, 'I'd do anything for my brothers too. Like you, everything I did was for them, even those I'd wished ill of.'

'You're a sick psychopath,' Anna countered, trying to suppress the limp from sight, as if doing so would erase Hans' memory of the weakness, 'the same with your brothers.'

'Is that why you killed them? Seeking vindication?'

'What are you...' Anna was still trying to comprehend the accusation when the Prince darted forward, forcing her back amid a fury of swings, before he stooped low, and retrieved the golden hilted blade from where it had fallen. Then, for good measure, he afforded the black dagger in his hands one last glimpse before discarding the hand crafted blade over his shoulder.

'Come on Anna,' he whispered, daring her to move first, 'let's finish this.'

* * *

Torben hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, as Plinus finished mauling the last of his bodyguard, and Varro proceeded to cut down the last of the men who had charged the Battlemaster; all undoubtedly brave souls, but each clearly lacking intelligence.

'Any last words, demon?' he roared, slamming a boot against the groaning man's stomach, sending him rolling another half dozen feet along the ice, away from the blade he'd been reaching for. Torben simply laughed in his face, clutching his gut as he belted his laughter.

'Come on then,' he chuckled, wiping a trail of blood from his mouth, 'martyr me for my Kingdom.'

Varro stopped cold, placing a restraining hand upon Plinus' shoulder, much to the Blademaster's dismay. Of course, the South would hardly surrender if they butchered their King on the spot.

They had to show them what he truly was.

Ideally, Varro had anticipated the demon would reveal itself the second they had placed it in jeopardy, but now they had come this far, it begged him for death, with a grin across it's face. And somehow, Varro had few doubts that a rampaging monster tearing itself out of Torben's body would prove slightly more convincing than an oscillating line on a Storm Node.

Torben was still grinning at him when the blade fell from Varro's hand, discarded well out of easy reach.

'I'll give you a chance, bastard,' he hissed, raising his own arms high until they were parallel to the ground in surrender, 'end it! I've seen too many of my brothers die, and I've been looking for a death with purpose. So come on, you piece of filth; do it!'

He saw the hesitation in Torben's eyes. The chance to kill a Battlemaster, against the knowledge that doing so would bring his old followers against his true kin in the North.

Temptation won.

The second he saw the yellow flecks sparking in the lime eyes, Varro knew he had done it.

Discarding the suicidal act, he hurled himself off to the side, just in time, as Torben threw himself forward. His mouth snapped beyond the normal capability of a man; fangs burst through bleeding gums, replacing blunt teeth, and a serpent's forked tongue ripped out of the depths of his throat.

Claws replaced grizzled hands and fingers, as they tore through empty air.

By the time he had landed back upon the ground, Torben had ceased to exist, replaced by a spawn of the Storm; falling upon all fours, pacing to and fro like a feral hunter. Diamond scales burst from flesh, and the King's eyes seemed to die, sinking deep into the recesses in the mutating skull until they reemerged as yellow slits of a serpent, as the creature continued to grow, until he stood at his full height, at seven feet in height, and maybe ten in length.

In the same moment, Varro had snatched up the fallen blade once again.

Despite what lay before him, Varro could not help the slightest twitch of a smile forming at the edges of his cracked mouth.

Now he had something he knew how to kill.

'Now we fight,' he hissed.

* * *

Not for the first time, Anna sorely regretted allowing herself to get as close as she was to Hans with her massive gaps of knowledge in the Prince's past, as she rolled past another sword stroke, barely keeping up with the lighting tempo of the duel.

Though she had heard from the Royal Guard of his aptitude with a blade when he took the sword against Elsa's titanic construct, she certainly had not translated their complements of 'competent' to 'highly skilled, and exceptionally dangerous, particularly when carrying a sword that easily measured three times the length of the short blades she was carrying'.

True, he did not measure up to the challenge Plinus had put up, but she certainly had not faced Plinus while bleeding profusely from one leg, and having lost over a pint of blood.

And Elsa was no longer at her side, or at least consciously at her side.

Opting for a strong attack to break a weakening defense, Hans hammered Anna's twin blades with the force of a hurricane, each strike oncoming from a different angle, each threatening to remove a limb with the slightest error.

And he had not spent the better part of the last ten minutes cutting through an army's center.

At least he didn't have help, Anna thought grimly. Even now, the vanguard and rearguard of the South were beginning to close in; kept in a column formation at the threat of the covering fire provided by both the men of Arendelle and the Obsidian team, but they came on nonetheless, at a dwindling force spread thin, fighting on two fronts, and with their momentum exhausted.

Against lesser men, the South would have easily butchered their opponents, but they were faced by the scions of the Council; it's shield and sword.

They were not men.

As a result, few men were able to bypass the lethal barricades of hellfire and blade that stemmed the charging tides on both sides, and those who did were of few in number, and no match for the mounted Makar and cavalry units that continued the patrol the shrinking space between the two thin lines of Guardsmen that held reinforcements from interrupting both Varro and Plinus' battle with the beast Torben had become, and the desperate melee just down the hill.

Hans swung the blade again, aiming to split her skull in two, and once more, like every past occasion, Anna brought the blades up in a criss crossed fashion, this time with her left hand presented to take the blow, the right in support.

The blow never came.

It was one of the oldest tricks in the book; a feign, and on any other occasion, Anna would have probably been able to react in time. But exhausted as she was, and with a dull pain already aching under her left arm, she had placed too much in the block to be able to react to the sudden change in Hans' oncoming angle of attack, as he snapped his hand back in a flash, and darted the blade back down, this time cutting in on a horizontal path.

The gold hilted sword sank into the already notched carapace, where the musket round had previously resided.

If Hans didn't kill her soon, Anna decided, as the ground raced up to meet her, Plinus certainly would.

* * *

'You really haven't changed, Anna,' Hans mocked her, as he withdrew the bloody edge from her side, kicking her over onto her back in the same movement, 'still charging off before you're ready.'

'And you're still the snake from three years back,' Anna coughed, trying to rise once again only to suffer in her attempts to do so. Her whole body ached, having been dropped upon a fully armored corpse, leaving a pulsing pain in the back of her skull.

Ironically, the only part of her that was not screaming in agony was her butchered side as

It gauled her to no small extent at his flippant attitude toward death, as he paced around her supine form, loosely holding the blade in a single hand.

'Don't worry Anna,' he whispered, kicking the last of her blades out of a weakened hand, leaving her defenseless against the oncoming blade, 'I'll make it quick.'

With that, he gently lowered the edge to her throat, already drawing a thin line of blood as he marked the point of his cut.

Instinct backing her as far into the ground as possible, Anna quickly realized that escape in that direction was impossible, as a hard, cold surface answered her, only, it was not ice.

And it was moving; ever so slightly; the rise and fall of a chest, and nothing more.

Tarus was well on the brink of death, barely clinging to life as he was, with at least a dozen holes ripped through his being, courtesy of the now-deceased Legionnaires who had thought it wise to charge the Guardsman. But wounded as he was, he presented a chance.

As soon as the blade began to fall, she made her move.

Unable to elicit any feeling in the fingers across her left hand, Anna rolled onto her bloodied side, ignoring the shards of pain as the open wounds met the frozen ice once again. In a single motion, her right hand closed around the nearest exposed hilt across Tarus' immobile form, sliding the concealed blade of out the Guardsman's upper arm, before she threw herself back into the position she had just occupied.

With a ring of steel, Hans' blade halted, barely inches from Anna's neck, and Tarus' cold body beneath it.

For a second, they remained, forcing their every effort into maintaining the lethal stranglehold, as the sharpened edges crept ever so carefully toward Anna's flesh.

Then, the thunder of hooves tearing across snow and ice snapped up Hans' gaze, distracting him for the barest of moments.

It was all Anna needed, as she slid her hand upwards, angling her hilt downwards and sending Hans' own sword sliding off her edge, into the snow at his feet. Then, spinning the blade in her hands until it was held in a reverse grip, Anna pinned the black dagger into the Prince's leg until all that could be seen was the matted hilt, and a fountain of red blood.

She saw Hans open his mouth to cry out, but no sound departed his throat, as her fist whipped upwards, taking the Prince in the jaw, and depositing him into the snow.

Try as she might though, Anna was unable to rise, as the adrenaline of the fight finally began to die, seemingly draining her limbs of any ability to move. That was before her sight was blinded by an explosion of white powder, thrown up by the drumbeat of unrelenting hooves.

By the time she'd wiped her eyes of the impediment, Hans was long gone, having been deposited at least another dozen yards away into the dirt, as Sven pawed at the ground, bawling a reindeer's equivalent of a challenge of battle, even if the subject of the challenge was indeed unconscious, whilst Kristoff slid himself off his friend's back, dropping himself into the snow beside Anna.

'Sorry we got held up,' he said, clasping her hand and hauling her to her feet, 'we got delayed in a bad way...Hell, Anna, what on Earth happened?'

The last comment was directed as his eyes fell upon the massive stain of red that continued to creep across Anna's side. Despite everything, Anna couldn't help the slightest smile emerging across her face. Sometimes, the world really did need Kristoff to spell out the obvious.

'I met Hans again,' she began, 'what do you think happened next?'

'You proposed?'

'Ha ha,' Anna laughed through a voice laden with enough sarcasm to sink a ship, 'why don't you try dancing with the snake for a little while and see where it gets you?'

She was forced to cut her train of thought there, as the pain in her hip returned at the rise and fall of her ribs. Laughter did not tend to go very well with serious wounds.

'Let me see that,' Kristoff muttered insistently, as Anna turned away from his touch, eager to keep as little pressure on the incision at her waist, 'you really don't look too good.'

'Really?' Anna asked, the slightest tinge of disappointment in her voice as she allowed herself a glance at the mangled Prince in the snow, 'well, I hope it's a sight better than Hans.'

Kristoff was on the verge of replying when a shriek split his ears, spinning both of their heads about, to the massive spectre that continued to dance with it's two, smaller counterparts atop the embankment, concealed for the most part by the spiraling snowflakes that continued to fall, burying the blood of the fallen.

'Better give him a hand,' she grinned, retrieving the blade Hans had carelessly tossed aside, 'can't have Varro taking all the credit again.'

* * *

The battlefield had become as silent as a crypt of old, it seemed, if one excluded the bitter melee that continued to bring howls and roars to the ears of mortals, as men watched on in awe, confusion, and fear at both the monstrosity Torben had become, and the ease at which the two Guardsmen that he faced were evading his every effort to crush them underfoot, as they scythed at armored legs, wearing down the beast with every step.

In truth, despite his opponent's terrifying appearance, Varro had few doubts that, between his own efforts and that of Plinus, the beast could have been sent back to the Storm within a minute, if speed was their intention.

For every man who witnessed the true creature that had guided Torben Westerguard, well before even the incident that had seen the youngest of his kin attempt regicide, it would mean another soul who stood against the tide at the Eagle's Perch.

Even so, such was far easier said than done, as Varro threw himself out of the way of another pounding claw. Even if it had not chosen to reveal the full extent of it's form during the hunt for the monster that had claimed three of Torben's kin, Varro still somewhat pitied the demon that was forced to battle this creature with token resistance, as a means to finally secure Torben's place as High King.

It probably would not have survived even if it had truly meant to kill it's hunter.

And then there was the issue of Foresh itself. There was a distinct order of command in the hierarchy of any demonic force, governed solely by strength alone. The midget that had killed the eldest of the thirteen brothers would have clearly been subordinate to the furious creature before the Battlemaster, but in turn, this thing would answer to Foresh.

The fact that they did not actually possess any documented intelligence on the lead demon certainly did not help; Foresh seemed to have a habit of either avoiding anything capable of documenting it's very appearance and capabilities, or simply ensuring no one that witnessed it's true form survived.

But speculation could wait, he decided, particularly when something almost twice his height was trying it's best to send him to the Great Father.

Deciding that enough of the foe had seen what they'd been fighting for, Varro snapped a throwing blade out, and pinned it through the back of the monster's knee, dragging himself upwards amid the beast's screams of agony.

Leaving the sunken blade lodged into twisted tendons and bone, Varro lunged upward like a cat, nimbling stepping upon the embedded shaft like a step, before he planted the next blade into the demon's hide.

Maintaining his step upon the infuriated creature, Varro swung himself upon his quarry's back, a savage grin instinctively splitting his face. The grin any hunter wore at the end of a pursuit.

His serrated sword clearing the sheath, the Battlemaster drew the edge back for one final stroke to tear off the beast's head, before he could cut out the monster's heart.

Or at least, he would have, had the demon's weakening leg chosen that moment to topple over, as it landed upon a patch of exposed ice.

Varro hit the ground moments before Torben did, before one of the creature's weakening limbs collapsed on him.

'Shit,' he whispered. The mound of flesh the King of the South had been mutated into was of far, far greater mass than Varro could even hope to move, even with the blade he had quickly plunged into the beast's paw acting as a lever.

Slowly, the demon's eyes turned to it's trapped prey.

'Shit, shit, shit,' Varro hissed, 'come on, you bastard!'

The claw refused to move, even another talon reached out to take his head.

Then, the yellow, gleaming eyes had disappeared; one gone from sight as the the creature pulled it's head away from the Battlemaster, howling in unbound agony. The other one had vanished under matted steel; a single hilt protruding out from between the mutilated eye slits of the demon.

* * *

'Now you made him mad,' Kristoff noted unhelpfully, as the remaining golden iris turned to face them, admitting Anna, Kristoff and Sven a front row seat of it's boiling fury for them.

Or at least, Anna thought with a gulp, the one responsible for taking out it's eye.

And unlike their past pursuer she had taken a liberty of hurling projectiles at, this thing did not look to simply order them off it's property, as all weariness seemed to fade from the embattered creature. Fatigue gave way to rage.

'Get on Anna!'

Anna needed no second invitation. Seizing Kristoff's outstretched hand, and doing her best to put the ache against her ribs at the back of her mind, she hauled herself upon Sven's back, before Kristoff clapped his heels into the reindeer's sides, sending Sven rocketing down the hill, with the mutilated sack of flesh in tow, baying it's rage with every stride.

'Sven,' Kristoff urged, 'go right! Now!'

The last minute adjustment was enough to tear them away from a battalion of Legionnaires at their front, fresh from battling two black cloaks of the Wreath unit who had simply given ground under the unrelenting assault.

Needless to say, the presented phalanx of bayoneted rifles did no harm to one who did not run himself upon their lengths, even as Kristoff swerved Sven onto a course parallel to the halted Southern line.

Torben, on the other hand, simply rampaged through the presented rifles, tossing his own men like rag dolls as they stood, petrified at both the very ordeal of betraying their King, and the foreign concept of daring to battle the creature he had become.

Many simply scattered to the winds, unwilling to face neither the fearsome black cloaks, or the monster their King now was.

Ironically, it was the very men Torben had rallied as his most ardent supporters; the Legionnaires themselves, through their fear of the unknown powers of sorcery, who stood fast against their past lord.

At the steel call of command, none of the blue uniforms faltered.

'Slay the beast!' the battered, barely standing, but unyielding Prince ordered, even as he drew his own blade one last time 'You lied to us all! You are not my brother!'

The creature Torben now was simply snarled in contempt at Hans' efforts to halt the bloodshed he had long craved; restrained for an eternity by the needs of the deception. Earth forged blades were little better than pins against the scaled hide of the hideous monstrosity.

He could afford to take his time, as a talon darted out, skewering a trio of men in a single blow before depositing them back into the ground.

By chance, one of them was none other than the youngest of the his own kin.

* * *

Anna saw Hans' fall with no small measure of mixed feelings. True, he had tried on countless occasions to end her life, but such had been at the behest of something corrupt to the core.

And now it had run him through without a thought in the world as it continued to tear through the Southern lines, trying to return onto the pursuit, to tear apart the one who would have dared to claim it's sight.

Swatting a dozen men as if they were little more than an irritation, the fallen King bounded after the bounding reindeer, blood and spittle flying from it's mouth, when it stopped mid stride, sniffing the air.

Slowly, it turned aside, ignorant of the men who continued to pursue it, covering the retreat of a select number of Legionnaires, as they pulled their commander away from the threat, though alive or dead, Anna could not tell.

It did not matter, she told herself, as her eyes glanced backward, to find a sight that chilled her blood.

The scaled beast sat upon its rear legs, with a maw of countless razors for teeth, barely inches away from a figure clad in aqua blue, barely moving in the snow, and completely oblivious to the monster about to end her life.

Someone was calling her name in frantic desperation to end her madness, but Anna was beyond reason, as she allowed herself to gracefully drop from Sven's back, drawing herself up into the same stance she had assumed the previous evening, aside the Guardsman who had first greeted her with a toxic blade.

Her hand rested gently against the the belt at her side, fingers searching for a blade, when she stopped cold.

One more; one lonely hilt occupied the elaborate set of sheaths locked at her hip, where twenty had once resided, split between either side.

Only one chance to save her sister's life, she thought to herself. If she missed, she wouldn't be able to live with what followed...

_Hesitation will be the killer._

With Plinus' words tempering her resolve to trust fate, Anna let the hilt go. It spun through the air in elegant arches, each resounding in her ears with the dull thump of a weight splicing through the air.

The diamond edged blade sank deep through the scaled armor, just above the demon's remaining eye as it began its descent upon the helpless Stormcaller.

Anna nearly cried at the unfairness of fate when she saw the creature rise, it's teeth still unbloodied by the taste of flesh, as it's gaze shifted upwards, staring into her unblinking eyes with enough fury to set a city ablaze.

At least she'd been able to save her sister, Anna accepted grimly, before an ear piercing roar descended split the field, and the demon plucked the Stormcaller off the ground, and, in a single, smooth action mirroring her own, sent her own sister crashing into Anna, pinning the honorary shadow to the ground.

'Elsa, wake up,' Anna pleaded softly, even as she fought to free herself from the dead weight, 'Elsa, he's coming...'

She didn't get any further when an iron grip closed around her left ankle, and dragged her out from underneath her unconscious sibling, to come face to face, albeit upside down, with the monstrosity Torben had become. His blind eye continuing to cry tears of black blood, whilst the other narrowed even further into a serpent's slit, Torben reached up with a single clawed hand, and with murderous intent, closed his grip around her two hands.

Anna had only heard tales of the rather brutal method of capital punishment by dismemberment with four horses, but, as the two claws began to pull in opposing directions, she began to have few doubts as to if she'd be witnessing, or rather experiencing that fate soon enough.

Despite the damage the transformation had done to him, the slight shape of the razor pit that had replaced Torben's mouth could have almost been mistaken for a smile when the pressure on her aching limbs was abruptly ended, and she was allowed to sway like an ill set lamp from a ceiling in the demon's grip, as it released it's hold upon her hands.

'Catch, Anna!' Plinus barked from below, as he raced Diomedes away from the furious demon, having already delivered the vital distraction by means of mauling the demon's hide with his old friend, 'Great Father guide your hand!'

After hours of meticulous practice, Plinus' blade found the warm embrace of Anna's palm with fair ease, as she spun it about, catching it by the hilt, and glaring into Torben's eye one last time.

She saw the slit pupil widen in fear, and, with all the strength she had yet to muster, Anna allowed the blade to leave her fingertips.

Torben tumbled back in panic and fear; his eye sight finally robbed of him by a daughter of Arendelle, as he clutched and clawed at the bloody sockets as if such would miraculously restore him the privilege of watching his own death, even as the pain in his legs returned, as black blades bit into the torn scale once more, as the Guard closed in upon their kill.

Anna, on the other hand, simply hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, groaning in agony as every bit of her body protested at the very thought of moving another inch.

It didn't matter anyway, she told herself, lying back into the snow, as black fabric filled her sight, and Torben seemed to fade from view.

She'd kept her sister safe, and that was all that mattered.

Blind, crippled, and surrounded by a vengeful army of Shadow Guard, and both men of Arendelle and the Southern Isles, the monster that had claimed Torben's body as it's own stood no chance, as it was pulled to the ground, in time to face the Battlemaster of the Fifty Ninth.

'May the soul that once governed this body find solace with the Great Father,' Varro whispered, even as he drew the blade back to deliver the final stroke, 'be at peace, Torben Westerguard.'

The blade pierced the twisted heart, and the King of the Southern Isles, if only his soul, was finally permitted to rest.


End file.
